


(Honesty Is) The Best Policy

by Chalenmimi, EachPeachPearPlum



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: (kind of), Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Civil War Fix-It, Communication Failure, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Feelings, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Honesty, Lack of Communication, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, POV Multiple, Pining, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, The Avengers Are Good Bros
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2020-12-29 00:27:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 65,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21145724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chalenmimi/pseuds/Chalenmimi, https://archiveofourown.org/users/EachPeachPearPlum/pseuds/EachPeachPearPlum
Summary: "December 16th," Steve says, because waiting for Tony to listen is never going to work. "1991.""That's…" Tony starts, finally still, finally done with trying to reassure Steve. "You know what that date is?""There was a mission report," Steve explains. "Names redacted, but-""Don't," Tony interrupts, and it hurts, the way he's looking at him. The combination of denial and comprehension, that he understands but doesn't believe, and Steve wishes his stupid moral compass didn't point due north all the time, that he could have accepted what Tony was offering rather than doing this to him.But Tony deserves more than that, and if Tony's going to hate him, it's not going to be because Steve has lied about this."Tony, I think they made him kill your parents."Or: While Steve and Sam try to track down Bucky and deal with the remnants of Hydra, Tony attempts to come to terms with his feelings about his parents, their killer, and his and Steve's not-a-relationship relationship.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I have so much gratitude for LavenderJane, who is not only a fantastic beta but a fantastic friend, and I would be beyond lost without her. Thanks also to Sharmini for cheering me along the whole time, to Ashbobo for supplying an invaluable perspective from the Other Side, to everyone else who has had to put up with me whinging about writing this thing, and to the mods for organising this fest.  
Last but decidedly not least, thank you thank you thank you to Chalenmimi for taking a chance on me. I've enjoyed having the opportunity to get to know you, and I am so very grateful for the art you have created for this fic. Without Chalenmimi's contributions (not just the art, but the brainstorming, the listening to me whine, and pretty much everything Clint contributes to the story), this fic wouldn't have been a fraction of what it is now, so I strongly encourage you all to shower her with all the love and compliments she deserves.  
I'm going to offer warnings for: references to Tony's time in Afghanistan and Bucky's time with Hydra throughout the fic, PTSD, a slight tendency towards drinking irresponsibly, references to Tony, Bruce and Clint's terrible parents, and mentions of giant spiders in chapter three. If you need any more info about any of these, please let me know, either here or on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/dreaminglypeach).  
The fic will be sixteen parts in total, with the last ones being posted on 5th November. Fingers crossed you enjoy reading it as much as I've (mostly) enjoyed writing it, and I look forward to any feedback you want to leave.  
Love, Peach x
> 
> Peach was such a delight to work with, it was so much fun to be able to talk about anything with her including who she was, what she wanted to do and of course the fic. It's my first time working on a Stony collab and I can't tell you enough about how much I loved to read how this fabulous author (yep, you are!) worked out so many things and feels in it. It's just stunning how many brilliant ideas were written, how you depicted everything with such an impact and I can't thank you enough for liking every bits of art or suggestion I send your way. The love and appreciation were very welcome, such sweet moments. I just hope I made enough arts to show the dedication you had for this incredible story you wrote *fingers crossed *  
Show her the great time you had reading it!!  
Thank you 10000 times for this opportunity and of course the mods for organizing everything.  
Enjoy the story full of emotions everyone ~  
*big hugs * Chalenmimi

_[image description: ink drawing in shades of grey, showing one of Tony's worktables, with coffee mugs, tools and parts, a book, a bottle of alcohol, some papers and one letter on top of it. There are holograms including a keyboard, a document dated "December 16th 1991" and a paused video player.] _

"I need to tell you something," Steve says, once Tony's spent a good half hour rigorously checking him for lingering injuries (not that Steve's complaining about that) and then twice that long swearing at Steve for not calling him in to help (_like you did with the Mandarin, Tony?_ Steve had asked, earning himself maybe ten seconds of silence, just long enough for him to distract Tony into another round of injury-checking).

"Tuhmrrr," Tony answers through a jaw-cracking yawn. "Schleee."

Steve's got enough experience of pre-caffeine Tony to translate this into English, so he doesn't bother asking him to repeat himself. "It can't wait until tomorrow, Tony," he says softly, fingers tracing the scar tissue on Tony's chest where the arc reactor used to be. "If I don't tell you now, I never will."

"Suhdon tehme," is Tony's barely comprehensible response to that, followed shortly by something that probably isn't a snore. "Canbethamproan…"

Steve plays that back again, trying to turn it into actual words, but there's a reason he wound up on the front lines rather than in a bunker somewhere: battlefront tactics, yes, advanced code-breaking, no.

"I'm good, but I'm not that good, Tony."

"Yeryar," Tony mumbles, pulling his head far enough from where it's pillowed on Steve's shoulder to smirk at him. Steve gives him his best _be serious_ expression (and if it's true that practice makes perfect, working with the Avengers means that expression has to be as close as it gets), and Tony huffs a loud, exaggerated sigh. "What I _said_," he says, "is that it can't be that important, if you won't remember it in the morning."

Steve laughs, entirely unamused. "The problem isn't that I'll forget it," he tells Tony, since Bucky's blank expression is going to be stuck with him forever, the same way he's going to be hearing that dead-sounding _Who the hell is Bucky? _in his nightmares until the day he dies. "The problem is that I won't be brave enough to."

At that, Tony shuffles back, propping himself up on one elbow and looking at Steve. "Okayyy…" he says, as somber as he ever gets. "You're trying to tell me that you, Mr _I Laugh In The Face Of Danger Ha-Ha-Ha_, are turning chicken over whatever this is."

"The Lion King," Steve says halfheartedly – Tony seems so pleased when Steve actually knows where his jokes are coming from, and since what he's about to say is probably going to drive a very large wedge between them, he's going to do what he can to make Tony smile one more time – before carrying on. "It's about the Winter Soldier, Tony."

"Pretty sure it's Hamlet, actually."

"_Tony_," he starts, before remembering that acknowledging Tony's attempts at distraction only ever encourages him; Steve might as well jump right in with what he actually has to say, because if he waits until Tony stops trying to avoid a serious discussion he's going to be waiting a heck of a long time. "He's Bucky. The Winter Soldier is Bucky."

Finally, Tony seems to get how important this conversation is, or so the absence of flippant remarks suggests. "Bucky," he repeats, sitting up completely, then, "Little light, JARVIS."

A soft glow fills the room, gentle enough not to leave them squinting, and Steve tries not to squirm under the oddly familiar look Tony's giving him.

"Bucky," Tony says again. "As in, James Thingamabob Barnes, your BFF from way back when?"

"Buchanan," Steve answers. "And yes, that Bucky."

Tony's still giving him that look, and the way he says, "Steve," so very kind and uncharacteristically careful, is enough that Steve works out where he recognises that expression from: it's the same way Sam and Natasha looked at him in the van, like he's almost painfully concerned for him. "I'm trying not to be insensitive here – and, believe me, this is probably the first time ever I can honestly say that, ask Pepper, she'll tell you I love being insensitive, and- That absolutely isn't the point, is it, and now you're giving me _breathe_ face, don't think I don't know you all do that, and oh, fuck it, I'm just going to say it, okay. Didn't Bucky fall off a train? Into a ravine. In, what, '45, wasn't it?"

"Zola," Steve explains, in as much as a few barely polysyllabic words can count as an explanation. "Russians, Zola again. Hydra. It's- Nat found a file, Tony, it's-" He falters, sucking in a breath that sounds awfully like a sob (it feels that way, too, and Steve's not absolutely sure it isn't one). "The things they did to him, I can't…"

He shifts away from Tony and rolls until he's facing the other way before sitting up, his feet on the floor, elbows on his thighs and head in his hands. "The things they did," he repeats, his heart in his throat, voice almost nonexistent. "The things they made him do."

"Hey," Tony says softly, the sheets rustling as he closes the distance Steve's just put between them, his chest against Steve's back, chin on his shoulder and knees a gentle pressure at Steve's hips. "It's- Well, no, it's not okay, but…"

He trails off, pressing a kiss to Steve's shoulder, the closest Steve's ever seen him to being lost for words. His arms are threaded around Steve's waist, squeezing just hard enough for Steve to feel it, and this, the easy, comfortable, not-a-relationship-but-not-quite-not-a-relationship-either closeness Tony has with him, is what Steve was worried about.

He should have told Tony the second he arrived in New York. He'd intended to, even, because he knew how much harder delaying would make this, knew that if he let Tony close, he wouldn't want to keep talking. Steve had planned to get _Hello _out of the way then start right in on the difficult conversation, but Tony had demanded Steve show him how his bullet wounds were healing, then he'd started marvelling, closely followed by touching and… Steve hadn't managed it.

"You'll find him," Tony continues after another kiss. "You'll find him, you'll bring him back here. Bruce can do chemicals, I've got technology sorted, Pepper has about a thousand shrinks and lawyers and PR-whatevers on speed dial. Anything you need, Steve, anything, you just gotta ask and it's yours."

"Tony-"

"I mean it, Steve," Tony says, more or less nuzzling at Steve's neck, hands fluttering over his chest and stomach like he can soothe his pain away just like that. "We're a team, most of us haven't got any family other than each other, and if the history books are at all correct Barnes was pretty much your family too which makes him ours by association. All of us'll do whatever it takes to help you with this."

"Don't," Steve says – begs, really. He stands up, pulling away from Tony again, unable to accept the comfort offered because he damn well doesn't deserve it. "You can't offer me that, Tony."

Tony follows him off the bed, reaching out again, a step forward to match each step Steve takes away from him. "I can, though," he answers, his voice the kind of glib it always is when he's trying to make something important seem insignificant. "I can one hundred percent guarantee the team will do anything and everything they can. Anything."

"It's not the team that's a problem," Steve says before he can stop himself. And he _should _have stopped himself, because absolutely nothing about this is Tony's fault, _nothing_.

"You think I won't help you?" Tony asks, reeling back like Steve shoved him physically rather than verbally, only to bounce right back again. "Yeah, okay, the thing with us might make it a little bit awkward, but I'm going to help you. Drop the benefits, we're still friends. You want to track him down, you want to bring him here, unbrainwash him, then you got it. You just have to-"

"December 16th," Steve says, because waiting for Tony to listen is never going to work. "1991."

"That's…" Tony starts, finally still, finally done with trying to reassure Steve. "You know what that date is?"

"There was a mission report," Steve explains. "Names redacted, but-"

"Don't," Tony interrupts, and it hurts, the way he's looking at him. The combination of denial and comprehension, that he understands but doesn't believe, and Steve wishes his stupid moral compass didn't point due north all the time, that he could have accepted what Tony was offering rather than doing this to him.

But Tony deserves more than that, and if Tony's going to hate him, it's not going to be because Steve has lied about this.

"Tony, I think they made him kill your parents."


	2. Chapter One

It's- fuck, Tony doesn't know what time it is, but it's definitely late, or maybe early, and-

He's not drunk, that has to be worth a few points in his favour, though the cracked screens and shattered crockery littering the floor of his workshop have to leave him very much in the red.

And, God, he deserves a drink. He deserves the biggest drink he's ever had, deserves to be completely and utterly off his face. He should be as shit-faced as he was the day they put his parents in the ground, too drunk to stand up, to remember his own awful, bloodstained name.

The things he's thrown at the walls (and floor, and, on one particularly stupid occasion, the ceiling) can be repaired, welded or glued or just swept up and chucked in the trash and replaced. When Tony breaks physical things, he can just open his wallet and keep pulling out bills until the problem goes away.

If he drinks too much, he'll say or do something that no amount of money can undo.

Maybe if it was just his friendship with Steve, it wouldn't be an issue. In the course of his lifetime, Tony has screwed up more friendships than he can count, and, sure, Steve's a great guy and being friends with him is a hell of a lot easier than the antagonism they had going on in the beginning, but if they quit being buddies Tony can live with it.

It's not just Steve, though. If Tony gets as wasted as he wants to be, he'll end up back upstairs yelling things that he's not sure he means, and the fallout won't stop at him and Steve. It'll roll right over the whole team, in a way they probably can't come back from.

He can live with not being Steve's fuck-buddy or his friend, but he can't handle losing the Avengers as well, so right now he needs to be sober and rational and deal with this in a way that doesn't end with him pushing away everyone he loves.

"I need to see that file," Tony says, though it's only when JARVIS replies that he realises he's done so aloud.

"Would you like me to ask Ca-"

"No!" Tony snaps, then shakes his head, trying to take the angry edge off his words. "Thanks, J, but it's really not a good idea right now."

"I understand, Sir," JARVIS replies. Tony can't decide if he actually sounds judgemental or if it's just that he's expecting to be judged, but it's uncomfortable either way. "If I might make a suggestion?"

"Would refusing actually stop you?" Tony asks, his question as rhetorical as JARVIS' was.

If he had physical form, Tony is quite sure JARVIS would be smiling at him. As it is, JARVIS has made it quite clear he has no interest in any form other than that which he currently holds, so Tony has to settle for imagining it.

"It hasn't yet, Sir," JARVIS says, and although he knows it does them both a disservice, Tony can't help but picture his namesake, the man who read him bedtime stories and patched up grazed knees and taught Tony every goddamn thing he knows about right and wrong. Edwin Jarvis may have been the inspiration for JARVIS, and his death was definitely what left the black hole that started Tony down the path to creating his AIs, but the man had layers Tony couldn't hope to code and the AI has grown far beyond anything Tony could ever have dreamed of. They're separate entities, only the name and the accent and the insubordinate loyalty in common, and yet Tony can't imagine his JARVIS with any other face.

"Captain Rogers said he received the file from Agent Romanoff," JARVIS continues, when the pause after his words passes unfilled by Tony. "Based on my analysis of her previous actions, I consider it highly probable she will have also made a copy."

"And what are the chances of her actually letting me see it?"

"Somewhat greater if you make the request than if you don't, Sir."

_Well_, Tony thinks. Never let it be said that he doesn't know when he's been beaten (Pepper would disagree, but her version of events completely disregards the fact that Tony is still alive, and therefore the long list of people trying to kill him clearly haven't won).

Natasha isn't around, though, didn't come back to the tower with Steve and Fly-Boy. She's off finding herself somewhere – setting up a new identity after blowing all her old ones, apparently, but Tony's familiar enough with identity crises to know that's what she's going through – and whilst Tony set them all up with shiny new StarkPhones after New York, he doesn't think she'll answer even if she kept it.

"Tell you what, J," he says. "If you can get a hold of her, I'll ask for the file."

There's the briefest of pauses, small enough to go unnoticed if Tony was talking to a human, glaringly obvious given that he's not. "The numbers I have on record are no longer in service," JARVIS says, though he doesn't wait long enough for Tony to get all victorious. "However, I have taken the liberty of checking Captain Rogers' contact list, and I believe I have an active number. Dialling now, Sir."

Tony doesn't say anything, even if he doesn't actually expect Natasha to pick up (assuming this is actually her number, because there's no way she'd let Steve save anything under her actual name). It's good that he doesn't, because he so hates having to eat his words: the phone only rings three times before it's answered.

"Stark," Natasha says, painfully brusque. "Little busy right now."

"I'll make it quick, then," Tony answers. "It's about the file you gave Steve."

There's a noise that sounds awfully like someone being punched in the face (nasal cartilage makes such a distinctive sound), but the pained grunt that follows it is masculine and therefore not of concern.

"He told you."

It's not a question, so Tony doesn't actually feel the need to answer. "You took a copy," he says. "Send it to me."

"Tony," she says, gentler now, like she really thinks Tony's going to stand for being pitied by her, by anyone.

"Don't _Tony _me, Natasha. I need to see it."

She doesn't answer, not right away. Tony isn't sure if it's that she's thinking or if she's too busy putting the hurt on someone; she's not breathing any heavier than before and her voice is perfectly even when she does speak, but since he's talking to the Black Widow that really isn't any indication either way.

"Most of it's not in English," she says. "I summarised parts, but not all of it."

"I can translate it," Tony answers, a little perplexed by her mentioning it, since he's never expressed any problems with foreign languages in the past. "Well, JARVIS can, but he's never minded giving me the credit in the past."

Natasha doesn't so much as acknowledge that he's spoken. "Don't let Steve have a full translation."

Tony isn't entirely sure what to say to that, really. If he was a mature, well-adjusted person, he'd probably argue that he can't do that, that keeping information from Steve would be absolutely unfair and wrong and… something else, and the fact that Tony can't think of anything else is proof that people are right when they've never, ever called him mature and well-adjusted.

So, he's not objecting, not really, but he's not exactly agreeing, either. Nevermind fairness, nevermind right or wrong; the fact remains that the folder contains information about the man who killed Tony's parents and Tony's pretty sure that takes precedence over the fact that that man was also Steve's best friend.

"Promise me," she says urgently, into the silence Tony's indecision has left. "I've translated anything that might help find the Soldier, but there are things in there Steve doesn't need to know. There are things in there I do not believe he can survive learning, and the only way I give you it is if you swear that won't happen."

Again, Tony's not fully sure he's okay with that, but he's willing to pretend for the sake of getting what he wants (Natasha's spent the whole time Tony's known her doing the exact same thing, so she hasn't got any grounds for complaint). "Scouts' honour," he says.

"You were never a Boy Scout," Natasha answers with the conviction of someone who has read a very large file that she believes contains details on every second of his life. Usually she's right, but in this case…

"Wrong," he says. "Two weeks when I was ten. Mom and Jarvis thought it would teach me the kind of skills I couldn't teach myself, Dad was thrilled to have an excuse to get me out of the house whenever the school sent me home, and I let them all keep believing that was where I was every Wednesday evening for the next year and a half."

"Huh," says Natasha. "I'll correct our records."

"_After_ you send me the Winter Soldier file."

"Give me twenty minutes," she replies. "I need to finish up here first."

It sounds like a dismissal, so Tony just says a slightly too emphatic, "Thank you, Natasha," and expects that to be it.

"Stark," Natasha says, before he can hang up. "He told you."

"And?"

"You have access to resources the rest of us don't," she explains, in a tone that suggests she thinks he should be able to figure it out for himself. "If everything I've read is true, Steve wouldn't have lived long enough to sign up for Rebirth without Barnes. They've been friends so long they're practically brothers-"

"_Ha_."

"-And the best chance Steve has of finding him and of keeping him from being killed by your country or any other is to rely on your resources, but he told you anyway."

"You think I should help him protect the man who murdered my parents."

Natasha sighs down the phone at him, like Tony doesn't know that any sign of emotion she expresses is nothing more than an affectation.

"Tony, no," she says softly. "I don't think you should do anything you don't want to do. I'm just making sure you understand how much you mean to Steve." She pauses a moment, like Tony's supposed to have some kind of response to that, then says, "I'll send you everything I've got on Barnes. Take care of yourself, Tony."

"Don't I always?" Tony says flippantly, but she's already goddamn hung up on him.

X

Sam has never been the heaviest of sleepers, but since he returned stateside he's slowly got used to not having to wake up immediately alert. He'll go back to it, now that he's hanging around with Steve and the crazies he hangs around with, there's no doubt at all about that, but for now he's fuzzy-brained, more than half asleep and not quite sure what woke him.

"My apologies for disturbing you, Sergeant Wilson."

"Sam," he corrects absently, dragging his hands down his face in an attempt to get a little closer to awake. It takes a moment, a stretch and shoulder roll that has his spine clicking, and then, "Holy shit. The house is talking to me, Merry," because under the wings and the chill Sam is actually a gigantic dork.

"Indeed, Sergeant Wilson," answers the _actual building_, what the hell. "I am JARVIS, Mr Stark's AI."

_Right_, Sam thinks. Tony Stark's home. Totally explains everything. "Sure, sure," he says; since meeting Steve, Sam's life philosophy has mostly just been _yeah, I can roll with this_, and now probably isn't the time to change that. "So, what can I do for you, JARVIS?"

"Captain Rogers has been in the gym for a number of hours," JARVIS says. "As per my Helicopter Parent Protocol, I am required to notify Mr Stark when team members begin exhibiting unhealthy behaviours, however in the current circumstances I feel it would be better not to alert him."

"Helicopter Parent, huh," Sam mutters, no expectation of an answer (Tony Stark: totally explains everything). He crosses the room to the chair where he left his pants and shirt not quite enough hours ago, tugging them back on and shoving his feet into his favourite, fight-friendly sneakers (not that he thinks that last part is likely to be necessary, but it never hurts to be prepared). "So, wanna give me directions, creepy ceiling dude?"

In response, the door to Sam's borrowed bedroom swings open, revealing a line of lights leading down the hallway. He follows them to the same fancy elevator that brought he and Steve up here earlier ("This is my floor," Steve explained, with the down-to-earth abashedness that is his real superpower, only to clear off to _check in with the team_ thirty seconds later), which sets off down without Sam as much as looking at a button. There's no awful elevator music, no sound either; the only way Sam knows it's moving at all is the swooping in his stomach, and even that seems muted somehow, far less than it should be in an elevator moving this quickly.

The doors open just as silently, and Sam follows the lights down another hallway to what is undoubtedly the biggest and best equipped gym he's ever seen. Weights, mats, a boxing ring, treadmills, bikes, balance beams, the kind of obstacle course Sam's younger self could only dream of…

And Steve, whaling on a punchbag like it's just made an impossibly crude joke about his mother.

The display is impressive enough that Sam watches from the doorway a moment, trying to work out how Steve's gone from being equal parts pleased to be home and anxious to start the hunt for the Winter Soldier to being six foot whatever of barely contained anger.

"Steve?" he calls, with an appropriate level of caution for sneaking up on a supersoldier. "You okay, bud?"

Steve glances at him over his shoulder, then immediately returns his attention to the bag. There's still bruising around his eye – apparently the serum prioritises the most severe injuries first, however the hell that's supposed to work – but even without it Steve still wouldn't be looking too great, red-eyed and red-faced and absolutely exhausted.

"Fantastic," he answers, over the thud of his fists on what Sam can only assume is a thoroughly reinforced Stark-made material. "On top of the goddamn world, Sam."

_Okay then_. Counsellor or not, Sam really doesn't think he's capable of handling a fraction of Steve's issues, but since Natasha has vanished into the ether in a somewhat ironic effort to find herself and the _building_ has elected to notify him rather than anyone else who's home, he's really got no option but to try.

"You've been down here long enough to trip some kind of safety protocol, Steve," he says, since there's no point at all in beating around the bush. "That's not exactly _okay_ behaviour."

Steve slams one final punch into the bag and then, shoulders braced like he's expecting an attack, says, "I'm sleeping with Tony."

Somewhat foolishly, the only response Sam can manage here is, "Stark?"

"You've seen what happens to the unfortunate bastards who befriend me," Steve answers, unwrapping his hands. "Do you really think I know enough people for two of them to have the same name?"

"Oh," Sam says, still not quite operating at a hundred percent. Which sucks, because Steve is quite clearly in need of any support Sam can offer him, so Sam decides to pretend it's not ass o'clock in the morning and jams on his metaphorical counsellor hat.

Or he would, if he had any idea what kind of help Steve wanted from him, what it is that has Steve tilting his head, the start of a frown crinkling his forehead.

"That's not a problem, is it?" Steve asks. His tone isn't quite _Captain America is disappointed in you_, but Sam can see it going there if he gives the wrong answer.

"You know that's legal now, right?" might not be the right answer, but it's probably not a million miles from it either.

"I know," says Steve. "I also know that there are almost as many jerks today as there were before the law changed."

"And you don't also know that I'm not one of them? I'm hurt, Steve." His joking tone is supposed to lighten the mood a little, but Steve still looks kind of uncomfortable; Sam decides to go down the route of absolute sincerity instead. "Steve, the only reason I'd have a problem with you dating Tony Stark is if you don't want to be."

"Sleeping with," Steve corrects, and at least _slightly perplexed_ is an improvement on _worried my new friend is a homophobe_. "And of course I want to be, it's just… Bucky."

"Right. I can see why that's complicated." After all, a previous boyfriend coming back from the dead as a tortured, brainwashed assassin can't exactly be good for a new relationship.

Steve nods, looking both completely exhausted and like he really wants to go back to hitting things. He doesn't, thank God, and Sam gives him a few moments before breaking the slightly tense silence filling the gym.

"I did wonder," he says, attempting to prompt Steve into something resembling a healthy way of dealing with his feelings. "The way you talked about him seemed a little more than just friendly."

Steve shrugs – which is completely unhelpful, as responses go – and Sam tries again. "I'd have said something then, but getting arrested didn't seem like the time for it."

"You've known since then?" Steve asks.

"Well, yeah." It's Sam's turn to shrug now, even as he smiles. "The whole _even when I had nothing, I had Bucky_ thing. It wasn't all that- you look confused, Steve."

"That'd be because I have no idea what you're talking about," Steve answers.

Sam about matches his confusion, since he'd thought the conversation was actually pretty clear. "I was talking about how your old honey coming back from the dead might conceivably complicate your relationship with your new one," he says, trying not to sound like he's stating the obvious.

Steve, on the other hand, makes no such effort.

"Sam, Bucky and I were never together."

"Really?"

"Really. Bucky was… I won't tell you I didn't love him – I did, more than anything – but not like that."

"Oh," Sam manages. Then, "What did you think we were talking about?"

Steve stares at him, all stoic and silent, so much so that Sam thinks he's probably not going to get an answer, certainly not anything that relates to the conversation they're having. It's hardly surprising, what with how disinclined Steve is to talk about anything remotely personal – given how hard Natasha's been trying to set Steve up with women, Sam's fairly sure he's the only person Steve's told about his relationship with Stark – but it's definitely not any better than the state Steve was in when Sam first came down to the gym.

And then Steve crumples, collapsing in on himself like a car hitting a streetlight, a full on concertina that ends with him sitting on the floor, his head down and shoulders shaking. He's completely silent, the way he was after the fight that revealed the Winter Soldier's identity, and Sam does exactly what he wishes he could have done then.

He steps closer, then goes to his knees, folding Steve into his arms, and does his very best to hold him together.

X

Precisely twenty minutes after she hung up on him, JARVIS announces the arrival of Natasha's email. She has to have done it deliberately – not even the Black Widow can so perfectly gauge the time it'll take to finish a mission – and Tony spares half a second to be irritated at her for making him wait before flicking away the footage of the Winter Soldier in action, replacing it with holograms of every page of the file Natasha's sent. He picks back up the gauntlet he's been fiddling with (not altering, not improving, just fiddling, checking it's in good working order despite the fact that JARVIS would report it if there was a problem) while he waited.

"J, put this in chronological order, then get me a translation on anything not in English, yeah?"

Tony hasn't finished his request before the pages are rearranging themselves in the air, spinning their way into a new order before stacking one atop another on the table in front of him.

"The translation is complete, Sir," JARVIS tells him; Tony waits for him to begin reading the file, but he doesn't.

"Tell me a story, J," he prompts. "I can't be the only one doing the heavy lifting here."

But JARVIS stays quiet far longer than it should take him to process Tony's request, and then, hesitantly, says, "I'm not sure that's wise, Sir."

"And? You say that about everything I do."

"Indeed, Sir. And I assume expecting you to take my advice would be asking too much."

"You assume correctly," Tony agrees, "Whenever you're ready, then."

Again, JARVIS doesn't jump to answering the way he's supposed to. "Sir, I really don't-"

"What the hell, JARVIS?" Tony interrupts, specifically angry with his AI for the first time in quite a while. "Read."

JARVIS is silent long enough that Tony considers the possibility that there's something wrong with him. Maybe something in the file has caused a problem, a hidden code that's got into JARVIS' workings and fucked about with things, except there's no way Hydra could have anticipated Tony getting hold of the Winter Soldier data, let alone work out how to make it past his firewalls. So Natasha, maybe, but although she knows more than the basics of hacking, his security system is still more advanced than what she usually works on (he's not going to say it's infallible, because that's just asking for trouble, but it's pretty damn close to it) and, more significantly, Tony can't think of a motive.

They might not be best buds, him and Natasha, but JARVIS is the closest Tony's ever going to get to having a kid and he doesn't believe she'd take that from him.

So why the fuck is JARVIS taking so long?

Tony pulls up another screen alongside the file and the specs for the gauntlets, then keys in the code to start running diagnostics. He's not sure what he's expecting to find, or even if he's expecting anything, but he's not good at doing nothing.

"That won't be necessary, Sir," JARVIS announces, like Tony's going to take his word for it.

"Won't it?" Tony answers, eyes on the display in front of him, tracking each line of code that scrolls past.

"All systems are working at their optimum level, I assure you," JARVIS argues; Tony gives the closest camera an _oh really_ look and keeps working. After a decidedly sullen pause, JARVIS speaks again. "As you wish, Sir," he says, the lack of inflection making him sound more machine than person, a clear sign of how much he doesn't want to do what Tony's asked him to.

The first page isn't so bad, really. Mostly just the facts behind the Russians finding Barnes, the location, time, a few details about his injuries: an assortment of broken bones, a fair few cuts and bruises, his left arm mangled beyond saving. _It's a miracle he survived_ seems to be the underlying sentiment of what Tony's hearing, and he can't help but agree with it; even with the serum, the odds of Barnes being smashed to bits on the ground or puncturing a lung or bleeding out or freezing to death are astronomically higher than the odds of him surviving long enough for someone to find him.

Halfway through page two, when Tony's huddled on the floor trying not to puke up everything he's eaten in the last _forever_, he thinks maybe Barnes would have been better off dead.

_[image description: Watercolour drawing of Tony huddled on the floor behind one of his workshop's tables. A chair is also lying on the ground with some pliers, while a book, papers, a gauntlet and assorted tools are spread out on the table top with blue holograms depicting documents and his keyboard are covering the surface.]_

"Sir? You are in Avengers Tower, in your workshop. It is January 17th, 2014, and the time is 01:32," JARVIS is saying, when Tony resurfaces from the memories triggered by hearing about the surgery removing what remained of Barnes' arm (the worst part was that they'd actually _waited _until he woke up before starting cutting; at least Tony's torture-surgery had been because they didn't have and didn't care to procure anaesthetic, whereas Barnes' had been entirely intentional, the fuckers). "Sir, if you don't respond within the next minute, I will be forced to summon one of the Avengers. Sir? Sir?"

"Yeah," Tony manages after the second iteration of this message (second one he's aware of, anyway, since JARVIS sounds worried enough to have been talking at him for a while). His voice is hoarse, the words coming out in broken bits between shallow gasps. "'M here, J. Don't- don't call anyone."

He sits up slowly and very carefully, propping himself up against the leg of his work bench, forehead pressed against his knees as he tries to remember how to breathe without vomiting.

At least JARVIS is too good a person to say _I told you so_, Tony thinks.

Natasha, on the other hand, isn't, so Tony isn't going to tell her that she's right. Steve can't ever be allowed to see what's in the file.


	3. Chapter Two

The asset is being hunted.

This is not the natural order of things.

The asset is the hunter, the killer, the monster lurking in the shadows. It is predator, not prey.

Well.

It is predator as a dog is predator. It has its orders. It sits when it is told to. It fetches what it's told to. It begs for scraps and plays dead in its little ice coffin and kills whoever they tell it to kill.

It has its masters.

Had.

The asset has chewed through its leash, and it ain't ever going back.

The masters aren't a concern. The asset will not hesitate to slaughter all who believe they can own it, turning its decades of training back on those who trained it.

The failed mission is another matter. The asset's research suggests the mission is tenacious, unlikely to call off the hunt for the asset, and since the asset failed to kill him before there's no reason to believe it can kill him now, even in self defence.

When it comes to the mission, the asset can only run.

X

One day, Bruce thinks, someone in Tony's egomaniacal monstrosity will actually remember that he's not that kind of doctor. In addition to his official areas of expertise, he can stitch a wound without batting an eye and just about keep up with Tony's engineering talk when the occasion calls for it, but he does not do brains.

It's not so much that he doesn't want to help – of course he does; these are his friends and Bruce wants them to be okay – as it is that he _can't_. Treating a physical illness is largely a matter of cross-referencing symptoms to reach a diagnosis and then finding a form of treatment that works for the patient; Bruce might have taught himself the vast majority of what he knows, but he does know it, and he's usually only called upon to provide medical assistance because there's no qualified alternatives available. Mental health, on the other hand, is vastly more complicated, and Bruce has no training to help people dealing with psychological trauma, no experience beyond learning to handle his own comparatively pedestrian issues (he's not dismissing the impact of his childhood or of the Other Guy, but since he's not dealing with torture, brainwashing or the death of just about everyone he's ever known, Bruce doesn't like to complain too much).

In short, as much as Bruce wishes he was the one to help his friends come to terms with their assorted issues, the chances of him making things worse are infinitely higher than the chances of him making them even slightly better.

Pepper was always good at remembering what his doctorates were (and, more importantly, _weren't_) in. Bruce misses Pepper. Due to his friends' aforementioned failure to recognise his lack of psychological training, Bruce knows that Pepper and Tony's on-again off-again relationship wasn't making either of them happy, that Pepper spent most of her time worrying about Tony and Tony's idea of a solution was to make enormous and poorly thought out romantic gestures that he couldn't actually follow through on, that they're both happier now that things are permanently off between them, but Bruce misses her thoughtful, rational presence all the same, and not just because he's now the one JARVIS deems most capable of convincing Tony to leave his workshop after having locked himself in there for over forty-eight hours.

"I'd offer to make you coffee," is the first thing he says upon seeing the even more chaotic than usual mess down there, "But I sort of think you've had enough already."

Usually, this is where Tony would respond with an attempt to justify his excessive caffeine consumption (a few years ago, Bruce wouldn't have had a leg to stand on where over-caffeination is concerned, but he's been strictly decaf since the Other Guy) and carry right on with what he's doing. Today, though, not only does Tony not say anything, he also hits pause on whatever it is he's watching so quickly Bruce would assume it's porn, but for the fact that he's not sure Tony would have a problem with leaving porn playing when someone walks into the room.

Bruce is as used to Tony's over the top, enthusiastic arguments as he is his _I'm so far into the science I don't even know you're in the room_ silences, so neither one of them particularly bothers him; he has, after all, lost himself in his work on more than one occasion, so it'd be hypocritical of him to object to that. This, on the other hand, is Tony very deliberately not talking to him, and it feels an awful lot like he's back to being the loser with the bruises, thrift store clothes and taped up glasses, invisible to all the other kids unless they were looking for a punching bag or someone to cheat off.

His time on the run had him liking his invisibility, finding it so much better than being noticed, but he's got used to people seeing him over the last couple of years; Bruce knows it's his issue, but between Steve not talking to him in the kitchen the day before yesterday (hell, Steve not even letting Bruce know he was back in town, which he's always gone out of his way to do in the past) and Tony glaring daggers at a paused holograph rather than looking at him, Bruce is perhaps feeling a little too sensitive.

_It's not about you_, he tells himself firmly. _Grow up, get over your hurt feelings and remind Tony he needs to eat and sleep_.

"What're you working on?" he asks, because a) it's often a lot easier to get Tony to act like a responsible adult if he distracts him by expressing an interest in his work first, and b) Bruce actually _is_ interested in Tony's work, most of the time.

"Files," Tony answers, fidgeting incessantly as he gives what is possibly the most concise and relevant response Bruce has ever heard him give to a question. Unfortunately, it's also entirely uninformative, and however long Bruce waits it doesn't seem like Tony intends to elaborate.

"The SHIELD info dump?" he prompts, and then, because firmly telling himself not to be insecure didn't actually work, adds, "I saw Steve a couple of days ago. Poor guy's having a tough week."

If there's one thing almost guaranteed to get a long-winded response from Tony, it's mentioning Steve; yes, Tony's diatribes on the man tend to be either entirely uncomplimentary or so complimentary that Bruce feels a little uncomfortable listening to them (Steve is a good-looking man, there's no denying that, but Tony's fifteen minute odes to his abs are more than Bruce wants to hear), but either way it would be more of a conversation than they're having now.

Tony… grunts.

Bruce doesn't know what to do with that.

"Okay," he says after a moment. "I guess you're busy. There's food upstairs, whenever you're hungry."

He's ready to head for the elevator, all set to finish up his _nobody loves me_ pity-party with a serving bowl sized cup of tea and a box of slightly stale doughnuts down in his lab, except JARVIS sent for him rather than just shutting down whatever Tony was working on until he's eaten and slept. Clearly, he thinks Tony needs to talk to someone more than he needs to get out of the shop, and, unfortunately for Tony, Bruce is the best person JARVIS was able to get hold of.

_Please don't let me make things worse for him_, he thinks at anything that might be listening, and then asks, "What's going on, Tony?"

At this, Tony finally shifts his glare from his _files_ to Bruce, which isn't entirely an improvement. "Ask Steve," he says. "I'm sure he'd be thrilled to tell you all about it."

_So it's about Steve_, Bruce realises, which more or less explains why his comment didn't serve as the conversation opener he wanted it to be. It doesn't explain _what_ the problem is, just the_ who_, and it doesn't actually help at all because, "Tony, Steve left."

Tony halts his endless, restless fidgeting, even his hands falling still on the screwdriver he's been flipping from one hand to the other since Bruce entered the room.

"Oh," he says blandly, as though his body language hasn't given away the fact that he clearly cares more than he wants to let on.

"Are you okay, Tony?" Bruce asks, despite it being very clear that Tony is _not_ okay.

"Just fucking peachy," Tony replies, still very bland. "Thanks for letting me know about Steve."

_Okay, then_, Bruce decides. Tony clearly doesn't want to talk right now, and pushing him is about the furthest thing from useful. He'll try again later. 

"You're welcome," he says, just as blandly. "Remember there's food upstairs, okay? I'll make sure Clint leaves a plate for you."

"Sure," Tony agrees, going back to his screen and carrying right on with what he was watching like Bruce isn't still standing right there, like Bruce was never even here in the first place.

Bruce leaves him to enjoy what seems to be footage of a car wreck in peace.

X

"Sir, Captain Rogers and Sergeant Wilson departed the tower approximately fifty-three hours ago," JARVIS reports, when Tony's had enough time to decide that he needs to know, even if he's still not entirely sure that he wants to. "They are currently investigating a Hydra base in Springfield, Pennsylvania. Would you like me to connect you to their communications system?"

"_No_," Tony answers sharply. "Damnit, JARVIS, quit trying to make me talk to him. It's not fucking happening, okay?"

"Understood, Sir." A pause, the kind that's usually followed by JARVIS being the hideous smartass Tony almost regrets programming him to be, and then, "I take it that means you aren't interested in reading the letter he left you?"

Tony very carefully bites back the _letter? What letter?_ that wants to come out, because even if it's JARVIS and he almost certainly already knows how much Tony cares about this, he prefers to keep his emotional stupidity to himself. And he knows it _is _stupid, utterly stupid, but finding out that Steve has fucked off after the Soldier rather than trying to talk to Tony again hurts, it really hurts, and the thought that Steve at least left him a letter makes it the tiniest bit less painful.

Tony might be winning when it comes to book smarts, but his heart is a fucking idiot.

"Am I supposed to care about that?" he asks, when he's sure he'll be able to sound appropriately irritated by the suggestion.

"I wouldn't presume to tell you what you should or should not care about, Sir," JARVIS says – lies, really, since he usually has a great many opinions on what Tony should care about. "I merely thought you should be aware of its existence."

"Sure. Because an _it's not you, it's me_ letter is going to make everything better."

"Understood, Sir," JARVIS says again, before lapsing into a very sullen silence. Or just silence, really, but Tony knows it's not a nice friendly one.

Well, whatever. As long as JARVIS isn't pushing him to read whatever bullshit Steve's written him, Tony really doesn't give a shit.

Except maybe it gnaws at him.

Just, you know, a little bit.

Because when their last conversation ended with _Tony, I think they made him kill your parents_, Tony can't actually imagine what else there is to say, and he definitely can't understand why Steve thought it was better to write it down rather than say it in person.

The bastard has just blown up Tony's world with the truth about his parents' deaths, and then he goes chasing after their murderer.

Maybe, _maybe_, Tony wants to know what the letter says.

_Fuck_.

"Fine!" he announces, flinging yet another shitty virtual blueprint into the virtual trashcan, because three hours have passed since he closed the CCTV footage of his parents' murder and set to working on the tweaks Pepper is demanding he makes to the new StarkPad and he's still only managed to recreate the same problem over and over. "Where is the fucking thing, J?"

JARVIS waits just long enough for Tony to be sure he's still sulking before answering. "If you mean the letter from Captain Rogers, I believe he left it on the bar in the penthouse."

There's only an inch of scotch left in the bottle he's been steadily making his way through since Bruce's visit earlier, and there's no point at all putting the lid back on it at this point; Tony throws it back, leaves the empty bottle on the desk for DUM-E to take care of, and stumbles over to the elevator.

"Let's get this shit over with, JARVIS," he instructs, and tries very hard to pretend he doesn't have to hang on to the railing to stay upright.

X

_[image description: the first picture shows a folded paper on a wooden surface, while the second shows the letter itself. The text of the letter is as follows: Tony. First off, I'm sorry. I truly hate that I hurt you, even though I have to believe I did the right thing in telling you. I wish there'd been a way to spare you, but I can't help thinking any other way of finding out would have hurt you more. And you would have found out, however hard I'd tried to keep it from you. This is something I have to do, Tony. Bucky saved me a dozen times before we even joined the army, but when it mattered, I didn't return the favour. If there's even a chance I can help him now, I have to take it. I don't have the right to ask anything from you, but please, talk to someone: Rhodey, Bruce, Pepper. You shouldn't be dealing with this alone, and I know they'd want to be there for you. So do I, if you ever want me to come back. If you need me, if you need _anything_, I'll be here. Steve]_

X

Tony doesn't know how he feels about the letter.

He reads it, then reads it a second time before folding it back up, pressing it flat along the same creases Steve left in it.

He knows how he _wants_ to feel. He wants to keep being pissed off at Steve, because he thinks being pissed off with Steve will make this a hell of a lot easier, but letter-Steve is every bit as earnest as real-Steve and even if Tony doesn't agree with what Steve wrote, he can't escape the fact that Steve meant it.

So Tony can't be furious with him, not really, but in the absence of fury all he feels is… absence.

Or sobriety, maybe, but swapping the letter for the half empty decanter on the bar doesn't reduce the absence any, so clearly the problem isn't that he's starting to sober up.

His stash down in the shop is starting to run low, now that he thinks about it; Tony leans over the bar – not the most dignified way of going about it, but the only one around to see him sprawled on his stomach with his legs in the air is JARVIS and he's seen a lot worse than that – to grab another bottle, then a second and third just for good measure. He pauses halfway between the bar and the elevator, then doubles back for the decanter and the stupid goddamn letter, folding it in half as many times as he can before jamming it into his back pocket.

"Home, J, and don't spare the horses," he says, propping himself up in a corner of the elevator before depositing the unopened bottles on the floor so that he can unstopper the decanter.

JARVIS does his passive aggressive silence thing again, judging Tony for whatever he's apparently done wrong this time, but the elevator descends anyway so it hardly matters, at least not until it stops at what is very much not his workshop.

"What the fuck, JARVIS?" Tony demands. "You _know_ this isn't where we're meant to be."

Rather than restarting the elevator, JARVIS apparently decides the appropriate response is to open the doors onto the team's floor. "Doctor Banner and Agent Barton have expressed concern for your wellbeing, Sir," JARVIS says. "I believe they would find your presence at dinner reassuring."

"Are you giving me a choice?"

JARVIS hesitates a moment before replying. "There is an emergency staircase down the hall to your left, Sir. If you wish to use it, I will not prevent it."

He doesn't point out that Tony can override the elevator controls if he so chooses, but Tony doesn't really need it pointing out. JARVIS may be the most complicated system ever built, may have more facets to his complicated personality than Tony ever imagined could develop, and display a great deal more humanity than a not inconsiderable percentage of the human race, but that doesn't change the fact that he's a system, _Tony's_ system. If Tony wants to turn an instruction into an order, he can, and JARVIS won't have any choice in the matter.

Except JARVIS is still a person, Tony's person, and he won't take away his free will unless he can see absolutely no alternative. He's not sure what a situation like that would look like, but he does know that JARVIS wanting him to share a meal with Bruce and Clint is definitely not it.

"Fine," Tony says, shooting a camera his most unimpressed look. "I'll play nice long enough to eat, but those bottles better be exactly where I left them when I get back, you hear me?"

"Understood, Sir," JARVIS answers agreeably, but since he's getting his way there's no reason for him not to be agreeable.

_Smug asshole_, Tony thinks, not entirely unaffectionately, as he exits the elevator and heads into the team kitchen.

Bruce is at the table, unloading far more cartons of Chinese food than the three of them can eat in one sitting (assuming Bruce isn't planning on hulking out, at any rate), while Clint's ass is sticking out of the fridge.

"JARVIS says I have to eat here so you guys stop fretting," Tony paraphrases, in answer to Bruce's questioning look. "Anything I like in this lot?"

Bruce moves a few boxes closer to Tony, while the rest of Clint emerges from the refrigerator, holding a couple of beers.

"You're alive," he says; Tony assumes it's a joke, rather than surprise, relief or disappointment. "Beer?"

"I'm good," Tony answers, lifting his decanter of joy and lightness. "And, yep, still alive. Don't worry, I'm sure JARVIS would call you for help with disposing of my body if I croak under his watch."

"Assuming Agent Romanoff is unavailable, certainly," JARVIS agrees.

"Fair," says Clint, passing Bruce one of the beers before sitting at the table and picking through the assortment of takeout containers. "Tasha'd be my first call for corpse disposal, too."

"I think I'm offended," Bruce says, fortunately not sounding it. "Man of Tony's approximate height and weight, give me all of twenty minutes and you wouldn't even know there'd been a body there in the first place."

A moment of silence follows Bruce's mildly alarming (and, Tony thinks, most likely accurate) statement, before Clint says, "Really hoping that's a _Breaking Bad_ acid bath thing, and not, like, getting Hulk to eat him or something."

"Hey, as long as I'm dead, you can do what you want to me," Tony tells them, while Bruce grimaces at the suggestion. "Until then, maybe stick to Chinese."

"Happily," Bruce says, and the conversation trails off as the three of them eat, Tony pausing every few mouthfuls to take another swig from his drink.

It's close enough to empty that when Clint scrapes his plate clean and stands up to get himself another beer Tony asks for one as well. The request gets him a narrow eyed frown from Bruce, but since he doesn't vocalise whatever his objection is Tony figures it's not a problem.

Except Clint has apparently missed the memo about how they're supposed to be ignoring the fact that Tony's hitting the bottle pretty hard, because he doesn't hand over the beer like Tony expects him to.

"Nuh-uh," he says. "People who lock themselves away for days only get beer if they explain what's bothering them."

"Sorry, what?" Tony asks, then directs his next question elsewhere. "He's not actually holding hostage the beer that _I _paid for, is he?"

"It would seem Agent Barton is doing precisely that," JARVIS replies as Bruce shrugs. "I believe it's an expression of concern, Sir."

Tony sighs, long and exaggerated, and downs what's left of his drink before answering. "My parents' deaths weren't an accident." He makes grabby hands at the beer Clint's still holding.

"The Winter Soldier," Clint says, not entirely a question, though Tony answers anyway, particularly since Clint sees fit to surrender his beer.

"The Winter Goddamn Soldier," he agrees. "Fucking Bucky Barnes."

The others are silent, long enough for it to occur to Tony that Steve might not have told anyone other than him (or him, Wilson and Natasha, anyway, not that he had much choice about them finding out) who the Soldier used to be. Which is stupid, because he can't think of any reason for Steve not to have told the rest of the team, other than the fact that he's an idiot who plays things too close to the chest rather than actually asking for help when he needs it (like that statement doesn't describe the whole damn lot of them, Tony included).

"Huh," Clint says eventually. "Guess that explains why Steve wasn't in a chatty mood before he left."

_It doesn't_, Tony thinks. It explains exactly nothing.

Or, no, it explains why Steve was angry and miserable, because only a soulless monster wouldn't be angry and miserable after their BFF comes back from the dead and tries to kill them. It _doesn't _explain why he didn't tell them that his BFF was back and enlist their help in bringing him in.

"Can we do anything?" Bruce offers after a moment. He sounds bleak, like he's well aware Tony's going to refuse but he feels obliged to say it anyway.

"Time machine?" he suggests, only half in jest; if anyone can sort out time travel, it's him and Bruce. "Otherwise, no."

"I'll get right on that," Bruce says amiably.

Clint takes another sip of his beer, which is perhaps emptying a little slower than Tony's is. "How's the search going?" he asks.

Tony shrugs; now that he's told them Steve's looking for Barnes, Clint and Bruce know just as much about the search as he does. Frankly, the fact that the search is happening is more than Tony wants to know, and he is not prepared to stick around listening to them speculate. "How the hell would I know?"

"Oh," Clint says. "I'd assumed you and JARVIS were helping him look."

Tony's an actual goddamn genius, no two ways of looking at it, but it still takes him an awfully long time to make sense of that. Not because it's in any way a complicated idea, but because he can't actually believe Clint would be _stupid_ enough to think it.

"You thought I was helping Steve find my parents' murderer," he manages incredulously, more of a repetition than a question. "Then, what, you thought I'd bring the Winter Soldier into my home, build him a nice cushy floor all of his own?"

Clint… shrugs. "I mean, kind of, yeah. It's what you did for the rest of us."

"He _murdered_ my _parents_," Tony reiterates, on the off chance that the reason Clint is being so stupid is that he hasn't actually understood that fact. "The only reason I'd be finding him is to put him in the ground."

This time, the shrug gets upgraded (downgraded, maybe, Tony's not sure if it's an improvement or not) to a scoff. "I don't think you would, Tony. I didn't think you even likedyour old man."

"So, what, he deserved to have his skull crushed?"

"Whoa," Clint answers, hands raised in surrender, or maybe like he's trying to distance himself from Tony's suggestion, though it's much too late for either option to make things any better. "Come on, you know that's _not_ what I'm saying."

"Guys," Bruce says, softly enough that Tony feels justified in ignoring it.

"Isn't it?" he asks, ice in his veins, and in his voice.

"_No_, Tony," Clint answers beseechingly. "Of course I don't think they deserved it. But, judging by the way he beat the shit out of his oldest friend, it doesn't look like the guy was ever given a choice."

He says it like he thinks this is something Tony hasn't considered, which is just fucking stupid. Of course Tony's considered it – and, frankly, he doubts Clint is even capable of considering anything Tony hasn't – but the fact is, he's not buying it. If the Soldier could stop himself from killing Steve, he could have stopped himself from killing Howard or Maria or any of his other victims. And, okay, there was clearly an emotional connection with Steve, Tony's not denying that that helped, but it only cuts him so much slack.

And then Clint fucks up any good will Tony might have had for fucking Bucky Barnes by adding, "I just- Maybe I don't think avenging abusive parents should be too high a priority, okay."

"Clint," Bruce warns, this time a little louder and a lot firmer (though, thankfully, not the _I'm about to trash our home again_ kind of firm). He's the only one of them still sat down, not that Tony knows when in the argument he stood up.

Clint transfers his gaze from Tony to Bruce, his expression not quite as harsh as it was. "Come on, Bruce," he says, still sounding like he thinks he's being reasonable. "Are we just supposed to ignore the fact that Tony wants to go all _my name is Inigo Montoya _on Cap's best buddy and to hell with the consequences or the fact that it wasn't his fault? Because I don't know about you, but I don't want to see my actually decent family ripped apart so Tony can get revenge for the shitty one he was born into."

He's back to looking at Tony again, and Tony doesn't know what his expression is doing – or even really how he's feeling, other that _not drunk enough_ – but it's enough that Clint stops talking shit about Tony's parents. He shakes his head, then closes his eyes as he takes a deep breath.

"I'm gonna take a walk," he says in what seems to Tony (himself a master of feigned neutrality, at least most of the time) to be forced calm. "Cool off."

_You fucking do that_, Tony thinks, aware that he could maybe do with some cooling off himself. It knocks a lot of the wind from his sails when Clint pauses in the doorway and says, "Sorry, Tony."

His departure leaves a heavy sense of discomfort in the room, Tony too stunned first by the attack on himself and his parents and then by Clint's apology for him to find words.

Or so he thought, anyway; Tony's not expecting it at all when he hears a voice, very small and inexplicably his, say, "They weren't abusive."

Because, okay, Howard worked a lot and drank even more, Tony won't deny that. He was almost never home, always in the office or the lab or on his stupid, futile rescue mission, and when he was there he was either absent or angry. And maybe Maria could be cool, distant, substituting praise and affection with expensive gifts Tony neither needed nor wanted. Sure, she spent half the time not a whole lot more sober than her husband was, but it's not like being married to Howard could have been a picnic, and all Tony's fuck-ups sure as shit couldn't have made her life any easier. But he never went hungry, never lacked clean clothes or hot water or anything he could possibly need.

His parents loved him. Tony knows that, even if it was twenty years after their deaths before he realised his dad didn't think he was a complete and utter waste of space.

Bruce isn't saying anything.

"They _weren't_," Tony repeats, still stuck on _why are you saying this, whyyy_, because it's fucking ridiculous that he's trying to justify his childhood, even more so that he's trying to do so to Bruce, whose father was one of the shittiest shits to ever procreate. "Not like you guys had. No one ever hit me, or whatever."

"Tony," Bruce says, sounding stupidly kind (did he miss the part where Tony said his parents were basically saints compared to Bruce's or Clint's or even freaking Odin, for God's sake, he's not the one that needs kindness) and even more cautious. "Tony, you get that not hitting your kid isn't even the bare minimum of what it takes to be an acceptable parent, right?"

Tony shrugs that one off, because it's not the point, it is absolutely fucking _not_ the point.

"My mom, Bruce. He killed my _mom_. She wasn't a scientist or a spy, and there's no way she could have been a threat to Hydra. She was a- a fucking _socialite_. There was no reason for her to die."

"I know," Bruce says, sounding almost as awkward at having to witness Tony's half-sobbed almost-breakdown as Tony is to have it witnessed. "I can't possibly understand how you feel, Tony. I can't, I know that." 

He hesitates, so long that Tony fights off enough of his embarrassment that he can look up at him; Bruce looks uncertain, a little uneasy, but he continues once Tony's made eye contact. "But I do know a little about how it feels to have hurt people when you aren't in control of your own actions, and Clint knows even more about that."

_Oh_, Tony thinks, along with a particularly emphatic _shit_. Because Clint can be a tactless dick sometimes, but he's their tactless dick, and Tony was too wrapped up in his ugly, fucked-up grief-rage to think about who he was talking to or how personally Clint might take his anger.

"I didn't mean him," he says desperately. "Bruce, he knows I'm not talking about him, right?"

"I'm sure he does," Bruce agrees, but it doesn't entirely sound like he means it. He is, however, apparently aware that Tony's a split second away from demanding JARVIS tell him where Clint's got to so he can chase after him, because he objects to that plan before Tony can put it into action. "Tony, I think maybe you should leave it a while. Both of you could probably do with some time to calm down before you speak to each other again."

There is every possibility that Bruce is right about that; he usually is, after all, particularly when it comes to anger management. Knowing that doesn't change the fact that Tony still wants to go after Clint, deal with the one fucked-up personal relationship he might actually stand a chance of fixing, but he's willing to give Bruce's advice a little credit.

"Yeah, maybe," he says. "You want a drink? I'm getting a drink."

Bruce gives him his version of the _oh, Tony, don't you think you've had enough?_ look, not that it's anything like as impressive as Steve or Pepper's, though it is probably on a par with Rhodey's. Unlike any of the others, Bruce doesn't try back up his disapproval with an attempt to talk Tony out of a bottle. 

"I'm okay, thanks," he answers, standing up and starting to tidy up the takeout containers, throwing away the empty ones and stacking anything that isn't empty on the counter, ready to go in the refrigerator once they've cooled down. "Take your plate with you, Tony," he instructs, which explains why he chose not to press the _quit drinking_ argument; clearly, he's decided this is a more important battle to pick.

"Fine, yeah, whatever," Tony agrees, picking up his unfinished dinner and heading for the elevator.

One of his bottles is missing when he gets there, but Tony's pretty sure that's not JARVIS' doing, and he thinks it's probably the least he owes Clint.

X

Clint grew up around alcoholics, first his parents and then half the folks at the circus. He's seen all kinds: the people who start drinking to have a good time and wind up not being able to have a good time without it; the ones who drink to deal or not deal with shit in their pasts; the ones that seem to be doing absolutely fine right up until the moment they're suddenly not.

Since SHIELD recruited him, it's a trap he's worked damn hard to avoid falling into, and aside from the occasional bender after a broken marriage or having his brain taken over by a psychotic alien deity, he's not done too badly.

Tony, on the other hand, is well on his way to having a problem so, really, Clint helping himself to one of the unopened bottles of scotch in the elevator is basically his good deed for the day. He's not going to drink all of it, but a couple of glasses after an argument like that isn't an inappropriate response.

Clint takes the elevator up to the roof, then walks out onto the overhang, sitting down and leaning his arms on the railing with his legs hanging over the edge. It's quiet, as much as the city is ever quiet, and there's no one around to get twitchy about him falling (they try to hide it, but Clint knows the only member of the team who doesn't have a problem with him sitting there is the one with a tendency to forget falls of that distance are fatal to the average Midgardian), so Clint does his best to relax.

He's planned the hypothetical assassinations of thirteen random office workers (_hypothetical_, okay; he's not actually going to shoot anyone, but it's reassuring to know that he can, if the occasion calls for it) before he feels calm enough to let himself think back over the conversation with Tony.

It was a fuck up, Clint knows that. _Don't talk about Howard _is the second thing on the team's List of Rules for Peaceful Cohabitation, right after _<strike>Pants</strike> Below-the-waist-clothing must be worn in all communal areas (yes, Thor, that means you as well)_, and Clint trampled all over it. Not to mention his flagrant disregard for _Only fuck with someone's denial if it's mission critical _when he pushed Tony about the fact that his parents were neglectful at best.

Clint knows he didn't handle things well. Tony is damn good at talking but not always so great at thinking first, and being both trashed and openly emotional just made that worse. The state he was in, it wouldn't have occurred to him that Clint might identify with someone who was potentially mind-controlled into committing murder. He wouldn't have thought about why straight up killing the guy without first checking he was actually to blame might hit a little close to home after some of the articles about Clint following the Chitauri invasion.

Maybe Tony's figured it out by now, or maybe Bruce has explained it to him, but either way Clint thinks Tony probably feels just as shitty about their argument as Clint does.

He's not great at apologies, but since Tony's a whole hell of a lot worse it looks like Clint'll have to be the one to take the initiative.

"Tony's in the shop, right, JARVIS?" he asks, swaying his way back inside and summoning the elevator. "Any chance you'll let me in so I can apologise?"

"Sir has not provided me with any instructions forbidding it," JARVIS answers, which is basically a yes in Clint's book; smiling grimly, he murmurs his thanks and asks JARVIS to take him down there.

Tony's workshop is as noisy as it usually is, a combination of robotic beeps, angry hammering and rock blasted loud enough that Clint wants to turn off his hearing aids. Fortunately, the hammering and the music break off as soon as Tony realises he's there, before he has the chance to acquire any more damage than he already has. Unfortunately, the ensuing almost silence isn't actually a whole lot better.

"Hey," Clint manages, after they've both spent far too many seconds fidgeting uncomfortably. It's just like ripping a bandaid off, he tells himself, and blurts out his next sentence before he can overthink it enough that he runs and hides. "So, I shouldn't have said that shit about your parents and I'm sorry."

"Eh," Tony answers, holding his left hand out, palm facing downwards. "Water," he says, then sticks his right hand out a few inches above. "Bridge. I, maybe, you know, wasn't really thinking about who I was talking to, but, uh, hey, I've been working on some arrow designs, if you want to take a look at them, or I can just send them up to your floor when they're done or whatever, it's no bi-"

"Tony," Clint interrupts; the drunken ramblings seem set to go on for a while, and as profitable as Tony's attempts to apologise without actually apologising might be, Clint feels uncomfortably mercenary about taking advantage of the situation. "You know you don't have to do that, right? Saying sorry is a lot easier."

Tony half-laughs, this dry, uneasy kind of sound, then picks up and promptly puts down a spanner. "Really isn't, though," he says under his breath. "Plus, it helps to be working, keeps my mind off- I mean, I just, look, this."

He makes an obviously well-practiced gesture, and the holograph above his workbench spins and grows until Clint can't not look at it, even if he also doesn't stand a chance of understanding it. "I mean, you've got your detonating arrows," he continues, indicating a line of text and an expanded diagram at the very left of the screen. "Grappling, taser, regular point-and-shoot, but I've been thinking, Bruce has been working on a formula, a molecular non-binary adhesive, might be an interesting addition, and then there's this micro-weave netting I've been playing with, tensile strength like you wouldn't believe, light enough that I should be able to put it in an arrow without altering the aerodynamics. Still having a little difficulty with the release mechanism, but I'm working on it, shouldn't be too hard, impact trigger would be really simple but it's a net, you want to trigger it when it's above someone rather than stabbing them, right?"

"Right," Clint agrees, since that seems to be the answer Tony's looking for, and he's clearly invested enough in his unnecessary but not unwelcome project that Clint won't be able to change his mind. "So, that's a net arrow, and the molecular whatever, that's glue, yeah?" Tony nods, and Clint waves at the next unopened file, intriguingly named _pfft_. "What's this one?"

"Oh, buddy, you're going to love that one," Tony starts, launching into his spiel again, borderline manic. Still, talking and working is better than drinking, and Clint doesn't much mind listening anyway. He wonders idly if Tony's aware that all the new designs he's talking about are non-lethal, or at least have non-lethal applications; it might be intentional, part of Tony's apology routine, some sort of unspoken _hey, it's okay, you're not the killer he made you be_, but, knowing Tony, it's every bit as likely that he has no idea what his subconscious is doing.

It's maybe ten minutes later when Tony interrupts his own slightly too technical explanation with, "I am, though. Sorry, I mean."

"It's all good," Clint answers, copying Tony's hand gestures after his own apology. "Water, bridge, whatever. This glue stuff of Bruce's, how long does it take to set, because there's this kid with a skateboard in my building who really needs to be taught a lesson."


	4. Chapter Three

Sometimes, when Tony's been digging through the Winter Soldier file for too long, he forgets that he's supposed to be angry.

It's just- Afghanistan was bad, okay, the absolute worst fucking thing Tony has ever gone through, just thinking about it makes his lungs crap out on him and his vision go spotty and his heart, Jesus fuck his heart is a goddamn disaster, completely un-fucking-reliable, and-

Afghanistan was _bad_, let's just leave it at that, but the things in this file, the things they did to a man who was by all accounts loyal and honest and _good_, altogether undeserving of what happened to him (as if _anyone_ could deserve what they did to him)… Tony's been beaten and shocked, cut up and drowned, over and over until he begged his captors and the universe to please just let him die, but that's nothing, absolutely fucking _nothing_ in comparison to what they did over the years it took to turn Bucky Barnes into Hydra's prized assassin.

So, yeah. Sometimes he forgets that he hates the Winter Soldier.

That's when he watches the video again.

X

The monkey is back, but it's done with dancing, instead marching its way across the backs of receipts, the blank spaces on newspapers, page after page of hotel stationery. There's a bear, sometimes, like the ones they made back in the war, only the one in Steve's pictures is old and worn, leaking stuffing from half a dozen places, one arm a mess of patches, and in most of the pictures it's hiding, little bits of bear poking out from behind trees or above the roofs of buildings. It's running, and stupid monkey-Steve has nothing but scraps of dropped Bucky-bear innards to chase after.

Other times it's the hummingbird, and even sketched in pencil it's all the colours of the rainbow, bright and brilliant, flitting from flower to flower, only when Steve draws the monkey offering up a bouquet the hummingbird just flies far, far away.

Half the time, Steve doesn't even realise he's doing it. Or, rather, he knows he's drawing, but it doesn't really register until he looks down and sees that ridiculous monkey chasing after things it can't have, his mental state spread across the page for anyone to see.

They're all too personal to throw out. Even though they're travelling under false identities and staying in the sort of places no one would ever expect to find Captain America, they still get the occasional _how do I know you? _glance, and Steve really doesn't want to wake up one morning to a message from Natasha directing him to an eBay listing for CAPTAIN AMERICA'S MISERY DOODLES!!!!!!

It's smarter to keep them, he thinks, and the scrunched up balls of paper at the bottom of his duffel would be entirely safe if Sam didn't one day decide to do their laundry while Steve is out buying food for them.

He gets back to their room to find his duffel bag lying on the foot of his bed, empty, right next to a stack of carefully uncrinkled doodles.

"Crap," Steve mutters under his breath. He picks up the papers and sits down in their place, bracing himself for the Conversation he's going to be subjected to as soon as Sam returns with their clean clothes. "_Crap_."

He knows how it'll go, because it's happened seventeen times since he met Sam: Sam will give him his _we need to talk about this, man_ look; Steve will say he's fine; Sam will sigh, tell him, "yeah, okay, but you know it's okay not to be fine?" and then come up with an anecdote that manages to make light of what Steve's thinking without making fun of it, all without Steve actually saying what he's thinking. It usually ends with Sam giving him a hug and Steve feeling painfully like crying without being entirely sure why.

It would be nice if, this time, they could just give it a miss. Steve knows that he's not okay. A part of him is still reeling over the fact that Bucky's alive, a much bigger part of him is in agony over Bucky running from him, a third is regretful and a hell of a lot more hurt by things with Tony ending than he thought he'd be, a fourth is raging over the fact that Hydra survived and grew so powerful, a fifth is full of guilt over destroying Peggy's life's work as well as endangering the lives of so many SHIELD employees, and all of those and every other part of him is messed up to the nth degree.

He's not okay, and he's not going to be okay until he knows that Bucky is, until Tony decides he's ready to talk to him again, until Hydra is gone for good with no chance of returning. Since talking won't help with any of those things, Steve would much rather not.

Unfortunately, he also knows from experience just how much Sam won't be swayed by that argument.

Steve looks down at his handful of drawings, wondering if there's anything in there he can spin well enough that Sam puts away his worried face, and that's when he sees something small and red next to monkey-Steve's head. He turns to the next piece of paper, and there's another red squiggle, and again on the third; flicking quickly through them, he sees that every drawing he pauses on has that same red shape.

It's a bird, Steve realises after the fourteenth picture; an artist, Sam is not, but he is apparently very determined to get his point across.

Sam's added himself to every single drawing Steve's made since they left New York, and it doesn't take a genius to figure out what message he's trying to convey. Steve might not be okay, but he's also not alone. Sam's got his back.

_Fine_, Steve thinks. When Sam comes back, they'll talk, and Steve will try to be honest and unevasive. Until then, Steve's probably got enough time to show Sam what a drawing of a bird is _supposed_ to look like.

X

Reliable intel, Maria thinks, is a lot harder to come by now that she's working for Stark rather than SHIELD. For one thing, her team is a lot smaller; Pepper may have spearheaded the recruitment of as many trustworthy former-SHIELD personnel as possible, but after discovering half your coworkers are part of an evil secret club, trust isn't particularly easy to come by. For another, although the hardware and software they're working with is beyond state of the art, they no longer have quasi-legal access to every camera on the planet as and when they require it (or, if they do, Stark has neglected to share that little piece of hacking with her), which negates much of the advantage provided by reduced processing times.

It's through Twitter, of all things, that Maria first learns about the spiders. Thank god Nick is no longer running things. She'd never live it down.

It starts when JARVIS reports a rise in the number of people complaining about large spiders in the vicinity of their homes. It's not a big enough increase that a human might pick up on it, but JARVIS is not human, and apparently two percent more tweets about arachnids for three consecutive hours is significant enough for him to bring to their attention.

Then someone posts the first photo, and Maria and her team realise that all the tweets reading _fuck fuck fuck there's a spider the size of Aragog in my garden _weren't actually exaggerating.

It is, she decides, time to call in the troops.

"JARVIS, I need a line to the team," she requests, her computer pinging steadily as more photos are uploaded. "Avengers priority override 36482, I don't want any of them sending me to voicemail."

"Establishing connections now, Agent Hill," JARVIS answers, as the first reports of people drawing guns start to roll in, shortly followed by the news that bullets don't seem to be doing any good.

Banner is the first to respond, with Barton not far behind; unsurprising, since both are in the building, Banner in his lab and Barton playing video games in the rec room. Rogers takes a little longer, given that he has to actually answer a phone, but he and Wilson appear on a single screen alongside the others.

"My apologies," JARVIS says, over the sound of the assembled Avengers exchanging greetings and questions about each other's well-being while they wait for the others to join the conversation. "I am having difficulty reaching Agent Romanov."

"Oh, yeah," Barton says. "Nat said she was going dark for a couple of weeks. I can get a hold of her, but it probably won't be same-day."

Maria nods. "Stark?"

"Sir is proving reluctant to join the call," JARVIS reports. "Attempting to override now."

"Yeah, that'll work," Barton mutters sarcastically; much as Maria finds his attitude challenging when she's trying to lead a briefing, she can't disagree with his assessment.

"This is about the situation in Peru, right, Maria?" Banner asks, presumably looking at the monitors behind Maria, which are _supposed_ to have been shut down before the call connected; someone is getting one hell of a scolding as soon as Maria's finished managing this crisis. Still, this information is hardly intended to be confidential from the Avengers, so Maria offers Banner a curt nod in answer to his question.

"Wonderful," Banner murmurs. "JARVIS, tell Tony we need him in on a Shelob situation."

"No shit?" Barton demands gleefully, at the same moment Wilson lets out a far less enthusiastic, "Oh _shit_."

"Seconded," Maria answers; in her opinion, any spider too big to fit down the plug hole merits a resolute _oh shit_.

A fourth screen lights up, finally, and Stark says, "You better not be exaggerating, Brucie-boo."

"If anything, I suspect I'm under-exaggerating," Banner answers. "Maria?"

"Right," Maria says. "We've been receiving reports from Cusco, Peru, of oversized arachnids. Initially, the creatures appeared harmless, if somewhat alarming, and then some rocket scientist decided to draw a gun on them. Turns out, their – do spiders have hides? – are impervious to bullets, and since then we've had two confirmed injuries."

Her tablet pings, and Maria glances down at it, her heart sinking as she reads the alert. "Three confirmed injuries," she amends, "And one unconfirmed abduction-by-spider. Any questions?"

X

There's a bug behind Metal Man. He doesn't know it's there.

Hulk likes Metal Man. Metal Man is shiny, and talks like everyone is stupid, not just Hulk. 

Hulk jumps on the bug. It squelches.

"Thanks!" Metal Man calls, and flies away.

Metal Man says he's not scared of Hulk.

He lies. Hulk scares everyone, but Metal Man pretends well.

Thor wasn't scared, even when Hulk hit him. Hulk misses Thor.

Thor kills things too fast. Spoils fun. Hulk likes killing bugs slow.

"Think it's dead now, buddy," says Arrow Man.

Hulk looks at him.

"Or not," says Arrow Man. "You carry on. Totally up to you."

Hulk grins. Pulls another leg off his bug. It moves. Not dead.

"Hawkeye!" shouts Angry-Sad Cap. "Falcon needs backup at your four o'clock."

"Aye-aye, Captain."

"Hulk."

Hulk looks at Angry-Sad Cap. He's pointing at more bugs, bigger than Hulk's.

"Smash," says Angry-Sad Cap.

Hulk likes Angry-Sad Cap, too. Almost as much as killing bugs.

X

"Tony," Steve says quietly, carefully, when the last of the creatures is down, the spider-abductees have been recovered, and all that's left is keeping an eye on the clear-up and making sure Hulk sticks to trampling spider corpses rather than civilians. It's the first chance he's had, what with Tony refusing to acknowledge him on the call from Hill and then flying down here in the suit rather than taking the quinjet with Bruce and Clint and risking a conversation with Steve after they picked up him and Sam on the way. "I just wanted to say thank you."

Tony's eyes narrow, and he exhales loudly. "What for?" he demands.

Since Steve was expecting Tony to still be pissed at him, the tone isn't a surprise, but the fact that he doesn't know what he's being thanked for is. Then again, Tony does his best to avoid gratitude whenever possible, so maybe he's just feigning ignorance.

"The locations you've been sending us," Steve explains, because he is extremely grateful that despite his anger Tony is still willing to help, even if he's getting a middleman to do the actual sharing of information. "Or the ones JARVIS has been sending, but I figured it was because you told him to, right?"

"Wrong," Tony says, over the whine of his boots firing up. "Very wrong."

"What?" Steve asks, because it's apparently his turn not to understand; there's no doubt in his mind that the coordinates he's been getting have come from JARVIS, but if he's not doing so on Tony's instructions then why _is_ he doing it? "Can we talk about this, Tony?" he requests, not feeling remotely optimistic about the answer. "Tony!"

But Tony's already gone.

X

"Right," Tony says as soon as the suit's away and he's locked himself safely back in his workshop, a very, very large glass of scotch in hand. "You and me are gonna have words, J."

"Certainly, Sir," JARVIS answers swiftly. "May I ask what these words will be about?"

"I have had a very long, very difficult day, and you do not want to play games with me, JARVIS." Tony pauses to take a breath and a healthy swig of his drink. "You know exactly what this is about."

Because he's JARVIS, and therefore not overly inclined towards contrition (Tony's never been able to stand obsequiousness, and he sure as hell wasn't going to programme it into his creations), he doesn't get an apology, or indeed anything more than a slightly sullen silence.

"Okay," Tony says. "Clearly you're determined to play stupid, so I'll spell it out for you. You've been sending locations to Steve."

"I have, Sir," JARVIS agrees, still unrepentant. "I was under the impression you would want me to do so."

"You were-" Tony interrupts himself to take another drink, more or less draining his glass in the process, but that's okay. The bottle's on the table next to him, and it's no effort at all to pour himself a refill. "Where the hell did you get that impression?"

It's his own voice that answers him, from a conversation who knows how long ago, well before all Steve's shit with Hydra and his undead BFF. "_Hey, J, help the gang out with their little side-missions, yeah?_"

"That wasn't-" Tony cuts himself off, not sure how to say what he means. It's not so much that he's angry JARVIS is still following that instruction – that would be like saying he _wants_ to leave the team to fend for themselves and that's absolutely not the case. They're his team, his people, so of course Tony wants to help them in whatever way he can, and he's not going to tell JARVIS to stop because if someone gets hurt and having info from JARVIS could have prevented it then Tony might as well have been the one doing the hurting.

The issue also isn't that it was a throwaway comment he made an eternity ago that JARVIS is _choosing _to keep following, because Tony's heard him regurgitate instructions that are much older in order to justify whatever course of action he's decided to take. And he knows objectively that JARVIS… approves of Steve, that's probably the best way Tony can put it, so of course JARVIS would want to help him, even if it does sting that the approval apparently continues despite the fact that Steve has fucked off to another country chasing down his ex (just a little bit, okay, it's not like they were exclusive, they definitely weren't in love or anything, and maybe Tony hasn't been with anyone else since well before Steve left but that doesn't mean their relationship was anything more than the two of them letting off steam, Steve made it perfectly clear that was all he wanted from the outset and he’s done nothing at all to indicate that he wanted that to change).

He just thought JARVIS would be on _his_ side, is all. What's the point in creating a hyper-intelligent butler-slash-offspring-slash-goddamn-guardian-angel if he's going to team up with someone else?

So, yeah. Tony feels betrayed, okay. Betrayed and hurt and he's trying very, very hard not to forbid JARVIS from helping Steve because even though that's what he wantsto do right now he's pretty sure there's a part of him that will regret it in the future.

"I didn't know you were still doing that," he says lamely.

JARVIS doesn't answer right away, deciding instead to go all _pointed silence_ (because Tony built him, didn't he, so he knows how much processing power JARVIS has and therefore knows he could have run all possible interpretations of and responses to Tony's words in a fraction of that time; obviously J is making a point, even if he hasn't let on what that point is yet).

"I understand, Sir," he answers eventually, which of course he damn well does; JARVIS is omniscient enough to make God Himself seem ignorant, so there's no doubt he's understanding things that even Tony doesn't realise he's thinking. "Do you wish me to stop assisting Captain Rogers?"

Tony thinks about it, long enough to empty and refill his glass twice. His first instinct is to say yes, because Tony is a spiteful, selfish drunkard, and still fantastically pissed off at Steve for choosing his murderous blast from the past over him. He doesn't want to help Steve on his vendetta, even if it's a vendetta against neo-nazis whose wannabe Death Star was targeting Tony and Bruce and millions of other people. He doesn't want his non-offspring using an order from ages ago to justify doing something Tony _never_ would have asked him to.

He holds back that first instinct, though, which is maybe a good thing because his second thought is that, even as pissed off as he is, Tony doesn't want to be responsible for Steve coming to harm.

"You've just been sending him Hydra bases, right?" he asks.

JARVIS does the virtual (if entirely silent) equivalent of whistling innocently, and Tony narrows his eyes at the nearest camera. "Right?" he prompts angrily.

"On a number of occasions, I have sent Captain Rogers what I had deemed probable locations for Sergeant Barnes," JARVIS confesses.

"Fucking hell, JARVIS!" Tony shouts, not entirely able to come up with words to express how angry he is. Or, well, he's got some words, but they're very much not ones he'd use in front of a family audience. "What the fucking _fuck_ were you thinking?"

"Sir, I-"

"That was fucking rhetorical! He murdered my parents! There's nothing you can say to justify helping Steve find him, _nothing_!"

JARVIS, being Tony's creation, hesitates only a couple of seconds before trying again. "I don't mean to cause you further upset, Sir, but murder implies a level of autonomy I don't believe Sergeant Barnes possessed at the time."

If he was having this argument with anyone else, this is the point where Tony would storm out of the room, have JARVIS take him down to the shop, and then proceed to drink himself close to unconsciousness whilst building something unnecessarily loud and explosive. As it is, he's already in the shop, well over the legal limit, and getting away from JARVIS is damn near impossible unless he leaves the building and takes no tech with him.

And, even then, JARVIS will know where he's gone.

"_Fuck_," Tony curses again, quieter but still utterly furious, and he's not being chased out of his own goddamn home by his own goddamn creation. 

"Right, no," he continues, glaring up at a camera so that JARVIS gets just how immensely serious he is. "I don't give a shit about your definition of murder. You are not taking his side. Send Steve as much information as you want about as many Hydra bases as you can find, if that's what you want to do, but if you get a fix on the Winter Soldier or Sergeant Barnes or whatever the fuck else you want to call him, you tell me and only me. Is that clear enough for you?"

JARVIS sulks a moment, either looking for a way he can get away with misinterpreting Tony's unquibbleable instruction or making sure Tony knows how unhappy he is with the situation. "Crystal clear, Sir," he replies, sounding positively mechanical in a way Tony didn't even know he was capable of. Then, just to emphasise the fact that he's apparently just as unhappy with Tony as Tony is with him, JARVIS turns on Tony's _go to hell _playlist at the sort of volume he would usually object to.

_Fine_, Tony thinks, cranking up the volume even further. _Two can play at that game_.

He pulls up the Winter Soldier murder video again.

X

The asset learnt caution at the hands of its former masters, and it learnt its lesson well.

It studies its reflection in a mirror until it can be certain it knows itself well enough to recognise if its face appears in news bulletins or on wanted posters. It lays false trails and avoids surveillance, doesn't stay anywhere more than a week, travels in the back of trucks, choosing its next vehicle and therefore next destination entirely at random. It sleeps under bridges and in storm drains, applying skills previously used to lift ID badges and plant evidence to stealing food from dumpsters. Sometimes it doubles back, on foot if it can't find a vehicle travelling in the correct direction.

There is no evidence that the masters have any idea where it is, or even that they might be looking for it.

The mission – Captain America – is another matter.

The asset doesn't know how he is managing it. One day Captain America will be on every news broadcast fighting giant spiders in Peru with the rest of the Avengers, and the next he'll be turning up in the town the asset left three days previously. He and the one with the wings will be obliterating one of the masters' bases in Los Angeles in the morning, then in the afternoon they'll be six hundred miles away in the city the asset is fleeing.

Captain America is _everywhere_.

It doesn't matter where the asset runs, whether it stops in town for a week or a night or an hour. Captain America knows it has been there, and he shows up soon after.

It's been months, and the asset is exhausted. It can't keep going much longer.

There is one place Captain America isn't, and hasn't been since shortly after the fall of SHIELD.

For whatever reason, Captain America has avoided New York with the same devotion the asset gives to avoiding cameras.

The masters aren't hunting for the asset. Captain America is, but he's expecting the asset to keep moving, not visit the place that its body once called home.

In a city of eight million people, the asset can disappear once and for all.

X

Sometimes, when Tony's been watching the footage of his parents' deaths on a loop for hours – maybe even days – at a time, he forgets that Steve is his friend, his teammate, his former semi-regular casual hookup.

He sees the Winter Soldier when he closes his eyes, his imagination filling in details that the black and white CCTV footage doesn't. Tony has managed to zoom in and use lip reading software to decipher Howard's last words, but his mind plays them loud and live in Howard's voice, followed by the crunch of his skull on the steering wheel. He sees the Soldier's hands around Maria's throat, around _his mom's _throat, watches as she struggles and gasps and _dies _at the hands of a man Steve wants to defend.

The Winter Soldier killed Tony's mom, and Steve wants to take his side.

It's hard, when his parents' deaths are playing in his head in 4K ultra-HD with fucking surround sound and all that shit, for Tony to think of Steve as anything other than an obstacle standing between him and their murderer.

Tony doesn't know how he's ever supposed to be okay with that.

Steve will make himself a literal obstacle, when someone finds the Soldier, and, sometimes, Tony doesn't think that'll be enough to stop him.

Sometimes, he thinks he'd readily go through Steve if that's what it takes.

That's when he reads the letter again.

X

(There's a set of blueprints for the arm, hidden in the depths of the Winter Soldier file. It's a work of genius, mechanically speaking, the interlocking metal plates concealing intricate circuitry that fantastically replicates the complexity of the human nervous system.

The blueprints show how those beautiful, clean circuits attach to the muscles, tendons, nerves and whatever the fuck else was left in the Soldier's shoulder. They show how the Soldier's body had to be reinforced to support the weight of the arm, bones pinned and plated and in some cases actually fucking replaced by mental replicas.

The blueprints detail just how everything needs to be connected so that instructions can travel from the brain one way and sensations like pressure and temperature and fucking pain can go the other way. Pressure, Tony can understand, and there's no real reason for the arm not to be able to detect differences in temperature, but pain? Pain is supposed to be the body's way of announcing that there's a problem and that the owner of the body needs to stop whatever they're doing until they've recovered. There's no need to put fucking pain receptors in a metal arm, not when any damage could be repaired with solder and replacement wires in just a few minutes. The only reason to make the arm capable of feeling pain is because they intended to cause pain.

The blueprints are awful, indescribably so, but it's not until he reads the initials in the lower right hand corner of each page that Tony vomits right there on his workshop floor.)

X

(After, when he's done cleaning up DUM-E's attempt at cleaning up, Tony has JARVIS open a new email, only to sit staring up at the taunting blink of the cursor on the blank, blank page.

There aren't words. There just aren't.

Eventually, he settles for sending a copy of the blueprint for the arm, subject line left empty, no message to explain it.

Steve tries calling him almost a dozen times in the half hour after JARVIS announces he's opened the email.

Tony doesn't answer.)

X

_No_, is Steve first thought, once he realises why Tony (Tony _himself_, not Tony via JARVIS or JARVIS acting of his own accord) sent him the blueprint. _No_.

Howard Stark was never anyone's idea of a perfect man. He already had the beginnings of a drinking problem back when Steve knew him, and by all accounts it only got worse the older he got. He would flirt with any woman who stood still long enough, would do a hell of a lot more than flirt with anyone who returned his interest, and Steve doubts that stopped after he married. His awareness of other people's feelings bordered on non-existent, and there's no question at all that that ignorance coloured the way he treated his son.

No, Howard wasn't a saint, and he was a terrible father, but he knew right from wrong and he kept mostly to the right side of that line. However much the war changed him, however damaged he was by part he played in ending it, Steve doesn't believe Howard was capable of true evil, the kind it would take to see a man he used to be friendly with tortured and do nothing to stop it.

Maybe those are his initials at the bottom of that blueprint. Maybe they're genuine, and Howard really did design the arm, but Steve doesn't, won't, _can't _believe that he knew it was Bucky he was designing it for, or that it was at Hydra's instruction.

Tony needs to know that, Steve thinks. He already feels more than enough guilt over the legacy Howard left him, takes on far too much in his efforts to make amends for Howard's wrongdoings, both accidental and otherwise. Steve can't let him believe that his father was the kind of person who could do this, not for the sake of Howard's reputation but because Tony shouldn't spend a single day thinking something like that could be in his genes. Because Tony shouldn't feel responsible for fixing this as well.

Tony's not answering his phone, and JARVIS doesn't offer to take a message.


	5. Chapter Four

Tony needs more information.

The file Natasha sent him is all well and good – or, you know, indescribably awful and the worst thing Tony's ever read in his life, but that's not the point, is it? – and Tony's found a lot of information for himself, mostly through concentrated examination of every politically or financially significant death since the forties and digging through all the files Steve's sent JARVIS from the Hydra bases he's taken down. He knows a lot about the Winter Soldier, almost certainly much more than Steve does, but that's the issue.

Tony knows about the Soldier's missions. He knows how the Soldier was trained and stored, about his skills and weaknesses, has unintentionally memorised the names, dates and means of execution of all of his victims. He knows about the Soldier's conditioning, far more than he could ever be comfortable with.

He is probably the world's leading expert on the Winter Soldier, but the Soldier is only half the story and Tony knows only the basic, boring, history book facts about Bucky Barnes.

He can't ask Steve about him. Even if they were on proper speaking terms rather than the stilted awkwardness (and that's putting it mildly) that they have now, Steve is the furthest thing from an unbiased source when it comes to Barnes.

Problem is, there aren't a whole lot of people left who knew him, and Tony has enough difficulty trusting the word of people he knows, let alone a complete stranger.

He's halfway to DC before it occurs to him that Peggy, given her Alzheimer's and her feelings for Steve, might not be an entirely reliable, unbiased source either, but by now Pepper will have discovered Tony's out of the shop. There's no way he can get back there without her catching him, and then she'll start trying to drag him to meetings, and it's not like he's got any better ideas so he might as well carry on.

He stops at his usual florists, only a few blocks from Peggy's nursing home, and buys his usual exotic, over the top bouquet for Peggy to fob off on the reception desk, and then a bunch of daffodils that he hopes she'll actually like and want to keep in her room.

The woman on the reception desk recognises him, not in the _OMG you're Tony Stark/Iron Man, can I get your autograph/take a photo/tell you about this totally awesome idea I have? _way, thank god. No, she recognises him as Tony Stark, here to visit Former SHIELD Director Margaret Carter in her high security, former-agents-only retirement home.

"I can take those, Mr S," she says, motioning towards the two huge bouquets he has. "Director Carter is in the sunroom, if you'd like to join her there."

Tony smiles, sneaks a peek at the name on her ID badge (he recognises her, okay, it's just that names aren't his strong point), and says, "Thanks, Kimberly."

"No problem, Mr S," Kimberly answers. "I'll have someone bring a pot of tea out to you in a few minutes."

_Make it a whiskey_, Tony thinks, but even he knows that's not an appropriate request to make in his current location. Instead, he nods in what Kimberly will hopefully interpret as gratitude, forces his smile a little brighter, and submits with poor grace to a pat down from one of the burly, well-armed security guards (and maybe Tony set off the metal detector, but he warned them in advance that it was going to happen so there was no need for them to overreact like that, but, hey, at least SHIELD collapsing hasn't reduced the security of their nursing home any).

Tony's visited Peggy here enough times that he doesn't need showing to the sunroom. Surprisingly, it's actually an accurate name; the room is light and airy, pleasantly warm, and the scent of impending death that always suffuses places like this is almost unnoticeable. Peggy doesn't spend a lot of time in there, but the fact that she's out of her room suggests she's having a good day, hopefully better than she has the last few times Tony has visited her.

"Hi, Aunt Peggy," he says, perching on an armchair in Peggy's brightly lit corner of the room.

"Tony?" Peggy answers, smiling in a way that makes Tony think she's not absolutely sure she's got that right.

Still, it's better than it could be, so Tony figures he'll go with it. "Live and in the flesh," he says, giving a little _ta da!_ handwave, then stands up in order to complete the obligatory cheek peck. "How's it going, Peg?"

"Oh, you know," she says, patting his hand as he sits back down. "How are you, Tony? Tell me about your life."

It doesn't escape Tony's notice that she's not actually answered his question about her well-being, but, of all the times he's visited her, she's never actually told him how she's feeling, so it's not anything out of the ordinary. She doesn't want to talk about her health (and, sadly, her memory issues mean she's no longer an authority on that anyway), and she's never been one to complain about things she can't change, so Tony doesn't push her to do either.

Instead, he tells her about the projects he's been working on: the issues with the new StarkPhone that cropped up in beta testing; the prototype wings he's been building purely to prove he can do it and do it better than whichever idiot built the EXO-7; the changes he's considering making the next time he rebuilds Rhodey's armour.

Peggy does a good job of keeping up, asking the right questions at the right time, every bit as supportive as she was when Tony would run to her or to Jarvis and Ana for all the attention Howard wasn't giving him.

Eventually, Tony winds up his story on Thor's latest cultural misunderstanding and pauses briefly to catch his breath, only for Peggy to interrupt him.

"It's not that I don't enjoy hearing about your life, Tony," she says with a smile, her frail grip on his hand tightening slightly. "And one day you or Steve will definitely have to bring this Thor to visit me, but I feel like there's probably a specific reason you're here today."

She gives him a look, one that's all too familiar from his childhood, way back when Aunt Peggy would wheel out the _am I supposed to pretend I believe that?_ expression whenever he tried to bullshit her. Tony feigns indifference, the same way he always used to.

Peggy buys it exactly as much as she always used to, which is to say _not even a little bit_; her expression gets just a fraction more emphatic, and Tony caves.

"Okay," he says, shuffling so far forwards he's barely balancing on his chair anymore, then leaning in just for good measure, not that he's asking for or going to offer anything confidential. "There's maybe something I wanted to talk to you about."

And then he stalls, because when talking to a dementia patient starting a conversation with _do you remember…_ probably isn't the done thing. Yeah, Tony thinks she's with it enough that she'll know who he's talking about and maybe be able to answer his questions, but he doesn't want her to think he's asking like he doesn't expect her to remember. Peggy has always been an absolute powerhouse, and even if she doesn't let on Tony knows it'll hurt her if she thinks he thinks any less of her.

"I can't read minds, Tony," she prompts.

"Could have fooled me," Tony mutters, deliberately just loud enough for her to hear, then raises his voice when he continues. "You knew James Barnes, right?"

There's a moment where she looks uncertain, and Tony remembers he's asking about a man she knew for no more than two years almost seventy years ago, that there was a war going on at the time so it's not like they had time to hang out and chill, and that the only reason she knew Barnes was because they were both… well, whatever they were (or are, or, Tony supposes, will be) to Steve.

"Barnes," she says, like she's testing it out, trying to work out why it's familiar, and then, smiling, "You know, I'd quite forgotten how many of Steve's friends were called James back then. Yes, I knew Bucky."

"Right, yeah," Tony agrees. "Bucky. Can you tell me what he was like?"

"I can…" Peggy says. "But, Tony, don't you think you'd be better off asking Steve?"

That… is actually a very good question, and something that would definitely have occurred to Tony to have an answer for if he'd thought this through. Except he didn't, and now he's waited too long to answer and Peggy is staring him down, eyes narrowed, and no amount of looking out the window and pretending he's fascinated by the well-maintained flowerbeds and absolutely hideous garden gnomes is going to put her off.

"We had an argument," he says, which is both accurate and vastly lacking information. The same is true of his next sentence, too. "I didn't want to talk to him about it."

Peggy gives him the look again but, thankfully, doesn't push him to actually explain (seriously, if it's a choice between going home without the information he's here for and telling Aunt Peggy he's been fooling around with her ex, there is no question at all which one Tony's picking).

"What can I tell you about Bucky Barnes, then?" she asks rhetorically, or so Tony assumes, since she carries on without waiting for him to reply. "Well, to begin with, he was a charmer, was Bucky. He was handsome, and he flirted as easily as he breathed. I don't believe there was a woman on any of the bases he was posted at that he didn't turn on the charm for."

There's clear fondness in Peggy's voice as she talks, telling him about all the women Bucky had eating out of the palm of his hand, but also of how she never heard any of them say a word against him. She talks about how Bucky had an almost magical ability to procure almost anything, even in war-torn Europe, and then the story of how she went looking for Steve in a London pub way back in 1943. That last part isn't news to Tony, not when Steve apparently has the same nostalgic desire to tell this tale, but it's still interesting to hear it from Peggy's side; unlike Steve, who mostly devoted all his attention to making sure everyone knows just how much of a knockout (literally, when the occasion called for it) Peggy was, Peggy's version of events is all about how useless Steve was and how enthusiastically Bucky came on to her.

_Charming_ is not the word Tony would use, based on this story, and he says as much when Peggy falls silent. "I mean," he explains, "It kind of sounds like he was trying to snake you away from Steve."

"Not even a little bit," she answers, laughing. "There is no doubt in my mind that I'd have been out on my arse in a flash if I'd taken him up on the offer."

"You think it was a test?"

Peggy sighs, like she thinks Tony's being an idiot and she's humouring him by explaining. "I think Bucky Barnes would have walked through fire to protect Steve Rogers, whether it was from a thug in an alley, an enemy soldier, or a relationship that was going to break his heart. Bucky would have done anything for him. Honestly, Howard, I know you have difficulty recognising other people's feelings, but even you must have seen that."

The name hits him just as sharply as it always does, filling him with a stinging blend of grief and resentment. Howard might have been a distant and fairly shitty father, but Tony loved him all the same, and it's not fair that he's gone, that he and Maria were murdered for whatever the fuck Hydra wanted them murdered for (all his searching, and still Tony hasn't managed to find an actual motive behind their deaths). It fucking sucks that Tony's been an orphan for more years than he hasn't and he's still stuck in Howard's shadow, that he can't hear his name without his brain automatically adding _you're not even half the man your father was_.

Tony knows that's not what this is, that Peggy has never compared him to Howard and found him wanting (god, the praise she'd heaped on him when he closed down the weapons arm of SI still fills him with warmth after half a decade). He's just been visiting long enough that her mind is starting to slip, and asking her to talk about the past like this definitely isn't helping, but it stings him anyway.

"It's Tony, Peggy," he reminds her gently, carefully. "Howard died over twenty years ago, remember?"

"Yes, of course I remember that," Peggy snaps, scowling at him as she yanks her hand away from his. "I'm not a bloody idiot."

The _unlike you_ goes unspoken, and Tony reminds himself that it's not Peggy, just her illness making her short-tempered and downright mean, sometimes. Peggy loves him, even if she sometimes forgets that.

"Sorry, Peggy," he says, genuinely, achingly contrite; he should have known better than to ask her if she remembers something, that he's not even supposed to correct her when her mixed up memories aren't causing her distress or likely to lead her into harm. "I'm sorry."

"Oh, Tony," she says, sounding a little bit sad and an awful lot tired. "I think it's time I was heading home, now."

It's Tony's turn to feel sad, so horribly, horrendously sad for Peggy, both the woman she is now and the fantastic, fearless woman she was for the rest of her life.

"Okay," he agrees; chair-bound as she is, she can't actually go anywhere, and the nurses have told him it'll cause her less unhappiness to play along than to tell her that there's now someone else living in whichever of her past houses she considers home. "I'll let one of the nurses know when I leave."

Peggy smiles a little vaguely, patting his hand again, the anger of a few moments ago forgotten like so many other things. "You're a good boy, Tony," she says as he stands up.

"I do my best," he answers, flippancy being about the only way he's ever been able to react to a compliment, particularly one as sincere as Peggy’s is. Well, that and arguing, because if he tries to balance the deaths he's caused against the lives he's saved, Tony doesn't think he's out of the red yet, but if he argues then Peggy will argue back and he doesn't want to upset her more than he has already.

Besides, her words have reminded him that there's still one more question he wants to ask, and it should hopefully be innocuous enough not to cause her distress. "Was Bucky a good man, do you think?"

"He was a soldier," she says, which isn't really an answer to his question (though it's certainly a more apt response than she knows). "I think we all did things we would rather not have done back then, but, to my knowledge, Bucky never did anything he didn't have to. Does that help?"

It doesn't, at least not as much as Tony was hoping, but it's probably about the best he can hope for. "Yeah, I guess," he answers, leaning down to kiss her cheek again, catching a faint hint of the same perfume she's always worn, something that smells light and simple, more akin to fresh laundry than the usual overly floral old lady perfume. "Thanks, Aunt Peggy."

"You're welcome, Nephew Tony," she answers, their old inside joke, dating back to when Jarvis first suggested to a five year old Tony that he should call her that. "It was good to see you."

"And you, Peggy."

He's almost at the door when Peggy calls out to him, waiting until he looks back at her before saying, "Of course, if you really want to know about Bucky Barnes, you should talk to Steve."

It's something he's avoided doing for fucking months, no talking to Steve about Bucky Barnes or basically anything else apart from when they've all been called in on the same fight, but maybe Peggy's right. With this visit, Tony has found out just about everything he can, and he doesn't honestly think he's angry with Steve so much as he's just plain _angry_.

Maybe it's time he talked to Steve.

X

The timing is so appropriate that Tony wouldn't believe it if he wasn't living it, but he's barely twenty miles out of DC when JARVIS cuts through his music to announce that he has a phone call, sounding resigned enough that Tony doesn't need to be told who's calling.

"Put him through," he says, graciously waiting for JARVIS to confirm it's Steve before giving the instruction.

"Sir?" JARVIS asks; Tony interprets it as a request for confirmation, which isn't exactly unreasonable, given that his usual response to Steve making contact is to instruct JARVIS to take a message (on a good day, anyway; the rest of the time he isn't anywhere near that polite).

"Put him through, J," he repeats. "I'll talk to him."

There's silence, presumably while JARVIS tells Steve Tony will actually talk to him, followed by the faint static even Tony's tech has yet to find a way to keep out of international phone calls.

"Steve," he says. "Speak of the devil."

For a few seconds there's only the sound of Steve's breathing, and then, "Tony?" Steve asks uncertainly.

Because he's a wonderful, lovely, benevolent person, Tony doesn't go with his instinctive desire to respond sarcastically (and the fact that _you called me, who else were you expecting?_ doesn't really work when for months Steve has been calling him and getting JARVIS instead is only a tiny, tiny part of his decision).

"Yeah, I'm here," he says instead, and, when Steve doesn't reply, adds, "What's up?"

Again, Steve hesitates before answering, and for the second time today Tony feels remorseful; dick that he is, Tony had focused on his own righteous anger rather than considering how Steve might feel about being ignored for so long. Now, listening to Steve hesitate probably more than he's ever hesitated in his life, Tony has no choice but to consider it.

"Okay," Steve finally manages. "Sam and I have cased the last place JARVIS sent coordinates for, and it's a lot bigger than we'd anticipated. You gotta know, I wouldn't be calling you if I didn't have to, but I think we're gonna need backup on this one. I thought- I was hoping you might ask Colonel Rhodes if he could assist."

"Pretty sure he'll say no," Tony answers, more of his mind on overtaking an old guy doing ten under the speed limit than on what he's saying or how Steve might hear it.

There's yet another pause, long enough for Tony to reflect on his words but not so long that he manages to work out why Steve is hesitating again. "Right," Steve says, sounding kind of… hurt, maybe. "Sorry, he's your friend. It's not really appropriate for me to have asked."

"What?" Tony says, in the moment before he figures it out. "No, it's fine for you to ask, but Rhodey's not as big on going AWOL as you are." A muted gasp comes through the phone line, and Tony realises his foot is still in his mouth. "Shit, no, I didn't mean us, Steve. I just meant, you go where you have to, but Rhodey will insist on talking to the higher-ups, and they're not going to give him permission, and- Look, I'm on my way back to the city, but if you call the Tower and let Clint and Bruce know what we're in for, they can have the jet ready to go as soon as I get there."

"Oh," Steve answers, very definitely surprised, but apparently he decides against looking a gift horse in the mouth; rather than asking the very legitimate question of why Tony's suddenly decided to talk to him again, he just says, "Okay, I guess we'll see you later, then. Thanks, Tony."

"You're welcome, Steve," Tony tells him, taking a moment to steel himself before adding, "Look, Steve, we need to talk."

"My apologies, Sir," JARVIS says. "Captain Rogers seems to have ended the call."

_Okay_, Tony thinks. It's probably a conversation that'll go better face-to-face, anyway, and he'll be seeing Steve tonight at the latest.

"Get a suit to me ASAP, J," he instructs; however fast he drives, he can definitely fly faster, even if he factors in the time it'll take the suit to get to him. As an afterthought, he adds, "Oh, hey, put the wings into manufacturing, have them ready when I get back, okay?" because if he's planning on trying to make things good with Steve, it won't hurt to get Wilson on side first.


	6. Chapter Five

There are many things Pepper loves about her job. She loves her offices, with their oh-so-comfortable chairs and her carefully maintained plants, and her employees, most of them just as committed as she is to the success of their own projects and the company as a whole. She loves that Stark Industries offers the best benefits package of any Fortune 500 company in the country and the fact that they also have the lowest staff turnover rate as a result, however much the old farts on the board might object to what they consider an unnecessary expense. She loves that they can offer opportunities to people who otherwise might not have had options, and that everything the company does is aimed at making the world and its citizens the best they possibly can be.

She loves knowing that she is steering this ship, and that every cent the share price increases by is just a little more proof that she deserves her place at the helm.

There is precisely one thing she absolutely hates about her job, and that's trying to get her flighty nuisance of an ex to put his company first.

Today is the first time in weeks that JARVIS has let her know that Tony has left his workshop, and Pepper is determined not to waste this opportunity to pin him down and impress upon him why it's so important for the owner of a company to make an appearance at meetings every now and again. She may be CEO (and very happy about that fact, too) but there's no denying that the shareholders find it reassuring to know Tony's still alive and still inventing.

Unfortunately, it seems Tony only left the workshop very early in the morning for an impromptu trip to visit Peggy in DC, so Pepper has spent close to half her workday waiting for JARVIS to let her know Tony's back.

Finally, just after noon, JARVIS announces that Tony has just flown into his workshop (unexpected, since Pepper was sure he took the Aston for his impromptu day trip), and that she has approximately three minutes to get to the roof before he leaves again.

"Two outings in one day, JARVIS?" she asks; in the days when Tony spent more time out of the house than in it, this wouldn't be at all unexpected, but given how reclusive he's been of late, Pepper is a little surprised. Still, if JARVIS says Tony's on his way out again, he probably is, and Pepper isn't going to miss him because she's waiting for an explanation rather than taking the elevator up to the roof.

"Captain Rogers requested assistance with a Hydra base as Sir was leaving Washington DC," JARVIS reports as she ascends. "He was hoping Sir might prove willing to put him in contact with Colonel Rhodes."

"And Tony's going instead?" she asks, now even more surprised.

"He is."

"Well, that's… something, I suppose," Pepper manages, thinking she perhaps might be a little more pleased with the end of Tony's reclusivity if it didn't also involve him disappearing who knows where at a very inopportune moment.

The elevator arrives before JARVIS can reply, and Pepper strides out onto the roof wearing her most determined expression, getting there just in time to see the armour fly up the side of the building and into the quinjet.

"Tony Stark, get down from there this instant!" she orders. She's fully expecting to be ignored, which is why it takes her a moment to react when Tony's head appears out the back of the jet.

"Whatever it is, I didn't do it," he says, hands appearing, raised in surrender, even as the rest of his body stays out of sight.

"Since 'it' is attending _any_ of the meetings you were supposed to be at in months, no, you did not," Pepper agrees.

Tony's hands drop, and he edges a little further out of the jet, no longer looking quite so on edge; clearly, Pepper's neutral voice is serving its intended purpose. "Oh, that," he says dismissively. "Pep, you know I hate those things."

"Everyone hates meetings, Tony. Unfortunately, they're a necessary evil, if you want to keep a business running, and you're just going to have to accept that."

"But, Pepper-"

"No," Pepper interrupts. "Tony, last week Robert Jones congratulated me on finally giving in to temptation and murdering you, and I'm not entirely sure he was joking."

"I've been sending in designs," Tony protests, laughing as he emerges fully from the quintet. "Obviously I'm not dead. Besides, if you were going to murder me, you would have done so years ago."

"He thinks JARVIS is sending them," Pepper explains tiredly. "Please, Tony. I understand that you're doing the reclusive thing right now, but the company needs you-"

"Fine, whatever," Tony cuts in, slinking back into the jet again. "I'll do better, I promise, but right now Bruce and I have a thing, okay?"

"Tomorrow," Pepper concludes, stepping onto the jet's ramp before Tony can hit the controls to close it. "The company needs you here, tomorrow, at 8am."

"Pep, come on, I have Avengers stuff," he protests, wafting his hand around to indicate the inside of the quinjet, the Iron Man suit standing sentry in the corner, and Bruce at the controls. "Important, save the world type stuff. I can't just drop it because the board are getting antsy."

Pepper rubs her temples in a futile attempt to dispel her budding Tony-headache. "I understand that, Tony," she says, with as much patience as she can muster. "But Fujikawa Industries are threatening to pull out of the deal I've spent the last six months working on if you aren't in on the meeting. Obviously, the world takes precedence, but if I find out that you're absent for any reason other than averting mass destruction then so help me God I will serve you your balls on a plate. Is that clear?"

"Crystal," Tony agrees, sounding about as cowed as Pepper has ever managed to make him. "I'll be there if I can, Pepper, I promise."

Pepper nods, offering him a tight smile. "Thank you," she says, stepping back off the ramp. "I'll leave you to your world saving. Try to bring him home in one piece, please, Bruce."

"I'll do my best," Bruce answers, sounding amused. "See you tomorrow, Pepper," he adds, through the rapidly closing hatch.

Pepper moves clear of the jet, then waits on the roof long enough to wave them off. "Back to my office, JARVIS," she asks, once she's back in the elevator. "One crisis down, another eight to go."

"I believe it's up to nine now, Ms Potts," JARVIS tells her. Pepper chooses to believe it's a joke.

X

The coordinates Steve gave Bruce lead them to a parking lot in an industrial complex a few miles outside of Barcelona. It's getting on for nine pm local time, and the place is deserted apart from Steve, Wilson, and an old Peugeot that looks to be too small to fit the both of them and too beat up to be road legal.

Tony's got progressively more jittery on the way over, to the point where Bruce keeps shooting him little _there's something going on here that I don't know about _glances, occasionally interspersed with longer _I want to ask if you're okay but I know you'll say you're fine _looks. Tony opens his mouth to come clean about him and Steve at least half a dozen times, if only because it'd be nice to talk through what the hell he should say to Steve when he sees him, but chickens out every time. It's just- if he and Steve don't work things out, he'd rather not have yet another failed relationship be public knowledge.

Not that it's a relationship. Or was. Or might be. Whatever.

Fuck.

_Hydra base_, Tony reminds himself as he steps off the still cloaked jet. _Fighting against neo-nazis. Exterminating evil._ These are their priorities, not him and Steve and the whole Bucky situation that is screwing up both their lives.

JARVIS put the lot's security cameras on a loop as soon as the last car left for the day, so there's no risk of anyone noticing two men appearing from nowhere. It also means there's no one besides the four of them and J to notice how awkward Tony's greeting is, and thankfully the only one who acknowledges it is Bruce, who doesn't do anything more than frown slightly which is basically the same as doing nothing at all.

Not that that makes it any less awkward, but Tony sticks it out.

"No Hawkeye?" Wilson asks.

"He's not been in the Tower for a few days," Bruce explains. "I tried calling him a few times, but you know how he is."

"JARVIS'll have a new cell waiting whenever he shows up again," Tony says. "Though I still think it'd be easier if you let me chip him the next time he falls asleep in his cereal. Or, ooh, an _if found return to Avengers Tower_ tattoo on his forehead, that way we wouldn't even have to draw straws over whose turn it is to collect him, just wait until some well-meaning citizen dumps him on our doorstep."

Wilson looks at him, mouth slightly open, then at Steve, then back to Tony again. "That's a joke," he says uncertainly. "He is joking, right?"

"Yes," Steve answers, at about the same moment Tony says, "No."

"Maybe don't fall asleep when Tony's around, though," Bruce advises, completely straight faced up until Steve laughs, at which point he smiles a small, proud smile.

"Speaking of new things, there's a present for you on the jet, Falcon," Tony says, because the alternative is just standing there gawping at Steve and that's where he draws the line. "What d'you say, want to earn your codename back?"

"Oh, hell, yes," Wilson answers, practically ploughing through Tony and Bruce on his way into the jet, where it seems to occur to him that he doesn't actually know what he's looking for or where he might find it.

Tony heads up the ramp to help out, pulling out the box containing the wingpack from the kit locker and entering the sixteen-digit setup code for the biometric lock. "Hand here," he instructs, pointing to the correct panel, then inputting the secondary confirmation code.

"It's all yours," Tony says as the box clicks open, then proceeds to give a quick rundown of the shiny new features he's added to the primitive tech Wilson is used to: the controls for the Redwing drone; the goggles with built in HUD, a much simplified version of that in Tony and Rhodey's suits; the basics of the flight controls. Wilson's grin gets bigger the longer Tony talks, his eyes boggling, and Tony's not actually sure how much he's actually absorbed by the time he finishes up the explanation with, "Anyway, it's all super-intuitive, so I'm sure you'll pick the rest up as you go."

"Uh-huh," Wilson manages, cradling the wingpack to his chest like it's his firstborn as they head back out of the jet. "Hey, Steve, I'm leaving you for Team Stark, hope that's not an issue."

"He does have the best toys," Steve agrees, mock-sighing, which distracts Tony from his impulse to protest that they're not on different teams, that they're still allies and sort of friends, even if they've stopped sleeping together and don't exactly agree. "I'm heartbroken, but I understand."

He looks across at Tony, not exactly smiling, but there's something optimistic to it, and Tony can't quite manage to look away from him.

"As touching as all this is..." Bruce says, dust-dry. "Don't we have a building full of fascists to take care of?"

Steve blinks, which is about when Tony realises they're both sort of staring at each other, and then the Man with a Plan straightens his shoulders and sets to proving he deserves the nickname.

X

It's not a tough fight, at least not when Steve compares it to the Chitauri, Schmidt, the Winter Soldier (not Bucky, the person Steve fought wasn't Bucky), or any of the other super/non-human foes Steve has come up against, but it's also not the easiest one either.

The base is situated under what appears to be the offices/warehouse of a completely normal transport company a short distance from their meeting point and, according to Steve and Sam's research (greatly assisted by JARVIS), the majority of non-subterranean employees have no idea that their workplace is a smokescreen for Hydra. Although Steve is of the opinion that anyone who sees as many _no entry_ signs as these people do and doesn't attempt to work out what's going on should be arrested for sheer lack of curiosity, Sam insists that's not actually a crime, so they wait until nightfall to make their approach, on the assumption that the majority of non-evil employees will have departed for the day.

Steve sends Sam and Bruce take the loading bay, Tony to what ought to be a locked fire door but has, as is inevitable, been opened by someone wanting a sneaky smoke break and never relocked, and takes the main entrance into the offices himself. JARVIS has managed to locate a plan for the building as it exists above ground, and they've been able to identify a number of probable entrances to the underground base, so they make quick work of subduing the small number of employees still at work at this time. All are carefully (and, in Sam and Bruce's case, apologetically) restrained and left outside the building (they're not entirely sure what the purpose of this particular base is, but no one is prepared to risk exposing potentially innocent civilians to dangerous chemicals) to await the arrival of the police once the team has finished.

Once a scan for heat signatures reveals that the four of them are the only people left above ground, they regroup at the elevator, where it takes Tony a matter of seconds to override the security and get them access to where they want to be.

There are cameras everywhere (another thing that Steve thinks should have tipped off the transport employees that all is not well in their workplace), so they're not trying for a stealth approach. Tony and JARVIS can recover data from all but the most destroyed computer systems, so they're not concerned about Hydra agents getting away, and as large as the place is Steve isn't worried that there'll be any kind of resistance the Hulk can't handle.

"You ready, Bruce?" Tony says quietly, as the elevator begins to move.

"Always," Bruce answers, his hands clenching and relaxing, the veins in his neck pulsing green. This is usually a danger sign, their cue to get the hell out of the room and put it on lockdown, but right now danger is exactly what they need. Tony moves all the way to the left, Steve to the right – pulling Sam behind him so that he can cover both of them with the shield – and the cluster of Hydra agents waiting to greet them receive a sudden and not entirely friendly introduction to the Hulk.

A single bullet makes its way past Hulk, pinging off of Tony's armour and eliciting a loud, "I just painted that!" from him; Steve's not sure if he's actually angry, or just shouting to be heard over Hulk's bellowing and the pained groans of his new not-friends.

They wait until Hulk has done the majority of the work before emerging from the elevator behind him. Steve makes quick work of restraining everyone who still has a pulse, while Sam proves that he's fundamentally a better person than either Steve or Tony by pausing to make sure no one else is going to die before the base is clear enough for them to put a call in to emergency services.

"Is that it?" Tony asks, flipping up his faceplate to glare at the closest barely conscious body on the floor. "You called us in just for that?"

It's about then that some enterprising asshole cuts the power, and another decides to really start the party with a flash-bang.

X

"Hey," Tony says, heading over to where Wilson is leaning against a wall, looking about four different kinds of exhausted. He makes a fairly lacklustre effort to straighten up as Tony approaches before appearing to think better of it, and Tony would be joining him if he thought the wall in question could take the weight of the suit. "Good fight. How were the wings? Better than the crap you had before, right?"

"I don't know, man. Clint said there are rules about encouraging your ego." He smiles tiredly, then adds, "Seriously, though, they're amazing. Thank you. And thanks for showing up, too. I know that can't have been easy for you."

He sounds ridiculously sincere, a lot like Steve does sometimes (birds of a feather, and all that), and Tony has no more idea what to do with it than he does when it's Steve.

"Right," he says quickly. "I don't know about you lot, but I'm exhausted. Where are you guys staying?"

Wilson looks at his wrist, seems to realise he's wearing the drone control wristband rather than a watch (Tony knew he was forgetting something when he designed that), then sighs. "Anywhere we can get a bed at this time," he says. "Back of the car, if that doesn't work out."

For a moment, Tony tries to picture that. Wilson isn't a big guy, not compared to Steve or Thor, but he'd still need to be curled up like a hedgehog to sleep in the back of the car Tony saw earlier, and then Steve somehow has to get in there as well, like he can even sit up there without smashing his head on the roof. "Well, that's not happening."

"It's not ideal," Steve says through the comms from where he's trying to corral Hulk. "But we've managed it before."

"No, I meant that's _not_ happening," Tony repeats. "J, find us somewhere local, four rooms, you know what I'm looking for."

"That's not necessary, Tony," Steve protests almost immediately. "JARVIS, please don't worry about us."

"Absolutely worry about us, JARVIS," Wilson protests just as immediately. "Steve, please, I was just being noble. For the love of God, please don't make me sleep in the car again."

There's a noise from Steve's end of the comms, a horrible mixture of Hulk roaring and wrenching metal. Tony's going to go with _streetlight_, a guess further supported by Steve's forcibly calm, "Whoa, pal, maybe don't swing that quite so hard."

Whatever it is Hulk has got hold of, Steve's is clearly too occupied by trying to dodge it to continue arguing, and Tony doesn't at all feel like he's taking advantage when he mutes the line to Steve and says, "Get it booked ASAP, J. He won't argue once I've paid for it."

"Sorry, have you met Steve?" Wilson says softly.

Even without the comms, Hulk's next roar is readily audible. Tony mentally debates going over to help with Operation: Retrieve Bruce, decides he's not actually that nice (after all, Steve dumped him for his murderer ex, so he deserves at least one solo Hulk wrangling mission), and then decides since Wilson isn't moving he's not going to either.

"Okay, fine, he won't argue _as much_," Tony concedes, thinking back on all the occasions Steve has seen fit to purchase for his own groceries rather than ask JARVIS to take care of it, not to mention the fit he had when Tony tried to throw him what was either a perfectly reasonable (Tony) or completely excessive (Steve) birthday party last year. "Wait until you have to give him gifts," he says. "Man's a nightmare to buy for."

"To be fair to him, I've heard things about your gift-giving prowess, and none of them are good."

"Right, sure, but, in my defence, I was avoiding dealing with massive amounts of trauma when the giant rabbit happened."

"Uh-huh," Wilson says sceptically, which is about when Tony realises saying that sentence to a counsellor was maybe not his best idea ever. "Still avoiding dealing?"

"Working on it," Tony tells him, more or less honestly; he's trying, okay, even if he's having about as many setbacks as he is successes. He thinks over his next question before asking, then decides he wants to know enough to risk it maybe not staying between just the two of them. "How's Steve doing with that?"

Wilson looks at him, not entirely approvingly. "D'you think that's a question you should be asking him instead?"

"Will he answer?"

"If it's you asking, I'm pretty sure he'll answer anything."

He's saved from having to respond to that (and, Jesus, how is he supposed to respond to that, the earnestness with which this almost stranger tells Tony about how Steve feels about him) by the reappearance of Steve, now down to his undershirt and uniform pants, and Bruce, draped in Steve's jacket and clinging slightly desperately to the remnants of his pants.

"I really thought we'd got the stretch factor right this time," Tony says. "Sorry, Bruce."

Bruce shakes his head, looking downhearted, before saying, "Just tell me we're heading back to the jet now."

"If I may, Sir," JARVIS says, taking it upon himself to speak through Tony's external speaker as he answers Bruce's plea. "I have located a nearby hotel I believe ought to meet your specifications. I have also taken the liberty of inquiring as to whether they have space for you to park the quinjet, and gentleman with whom I spoke believes their roof should suffice."

"Awesome," Wilson says, mustering up enough energy to push himself away from the wall and starting a meandering path in the direction of the jet, Bruce following after him.

Steve pulls a face like he's about to object, which, no. Tony's not arguing with him about this. If Steve wants to sleep in that shitty little car, that's his prerogative, but Tony is spending the night in whatever hotel JARVIS has found for them.

"Come on," he says, and doesn't wait for Steve to argue.

He'll get with the program eventually, now that's he's standing on his own, and the hotel will make for a lot better location to have the conversation he and Steve are very much overdue.

X

Man, Sam could definitely get used to this whole _billionaire backer_ situation. First with the wings, which make the set he had before look like Icarus' wax-and-feathers model. He knows the originals weren't actually clunky or difficult to control, once he figured out how to steer and, you know, got used to the fact that he was freaking flying, but these are… They're insane, is what they are. He's flying by instinct, controls so smooth and so intuitive he barely has to think what he wants to do, wings more like an extension of himself than technology he has to put on and take off.

These wings are like those dreams he used to have, where he was running flat out and then, at the point where he couldn't possibly go any faster, he'd jump and just- take flight. No propulsion, no engines, no tech, nothing keeping him up there, just him and the air. Those dreams became less frequent when he started flying for real, then vanished entirely when he left the Air Force, replaced by warped memory-nightmares that had him waking up in a cold sweat night after night after night.

For the first time since he lost Riley, Sam has hope that the good flying dreams might not be as gone as he thought they were.

Probably not tonight, though. Tonight, Sam thinks he has just enough energy to order almost everything on the room service menu, run himself a bath, eat his mountain of scary-expensive food while soaking his aching muscles in said bath, and then collapse into a deep, dreamless sleep in the largest, most comfortable bed he's ever seen before.

All of which brings him back to the second reason he loves having a billionaire paying the bills: before today, Sam didn't realise hotels could be this nice.

Well. He knew they existed, but it was very definitely in a hypothetical way. Sure, he was aware there are people out there who could blow a few thousand dollars on a hotel room for the night, the same way he was aware there are people who take drinks out of hotel minibars rather than using them to store their own stuff. Those people existed, but Sam was never going to meet one of them, let alone have one offer to pay his bills.

He's never been so happy in his life to be wrong about something.

X

Steve walks through the hotel in a daze. He's aware enough to be grateful there's no one else roaming the corridors at this hour – even outside the US, people are going to notice Captain America wandering around a hotel in the middle of the night, hair still dripping down his back after his shower and zero effort made to conceal his identity – but not enough to really be thinking about where he's heading or why.

He didn't think he was listening when the man on the reception desk read out the room numbers he was giving them, up until the moment he finds himself standing outside room 403, hand raised to knock on the door.

He shouldn't. He should turn around, go back to his room, order some food and then go to bed. His own bed. Alone.

"Steve?" Tony asks, his voice decidedly not coming from the room Steve's faltering outside of. "Well, I guess this explains why you didn't answer your door. Figured you just didn't want to see me."

"Of course I want to see you!" Steve announces. He's too emphatic, too enthusiastic, but since there's no one around other than the two of them and Tony's smile seems to be less mocking than it is surprised, Steve doesn't feel the need to tone it down any.

"Oh," Tony says, then kicks into the overdrive, mile-a-minute way he talks when he's not entirely comfortable. "Hey, well, since you're here, d'you want to come in? Share a drink? Or not, whatever, it was just a-"

"A drink sounds good, Tony," Steve interrupts, stepping aside so that Tony can unlock the door and wave him in.

"Well, okay, then," Tony says on his way over to the minibar. "_Mi casa_, and all that. Make yourself comfortable."

Steve looks around at a room that is every bit as opulent as the one he left, and tries hard to pretend that the over the top elegance is something he could ever really feel comfortable with. His options for seating seem to be a spindly-legged desk chair, what he suspects is a genuine Victorian era fainting couch, and the astonishingly large and still perfectly made bed. Only the latter looks substantial enough to support Steve's weight, so he perches on the very edge of the mattress and pretends he's not jittery with equal parts post-fight adrenaline and anxiety about talking to Tony.

Tony turns around, a glass in either hand, and just stands there a moment, quirking one eyebrow at Steve.

"Wasn't sure either of the chairs would survive me," Steve explains, shrugging.

"Mhmm," Tony agrees, "Any excuse to share a bed with me."

Still, he passes Steve both glasses before joining him on the bed, sprawling out against the headboard and patting the mattress next to him. "I told you to make yourself comfortable, Cap," he says. "Balancing precariously is not comfortable. Plus, as nice as the view of you from behind is, it's much better when you stand up, so if you want t- Yep, that's exactly what I was talking about, if you could maybe bend over now as well, maybe wiggle a bit?"

Steve might not be opposed to Tony ogling his ass (though, to be honest, he didn't think it was on the cards for tonight), but he elects not to display it anymore than necessary on this particular occasion. "Oh, I've missed you, Tony," he says, handing over one of the drinks as he settles himself at Tony's side. He tries to keep a reasonable distance between them, but it's a lot harder than the size of the bed might suggest (though it is, of course, possible that this has more to do with the fact that he doesn't much want to leave space between them).

For more than a few moments, Tony doesn't say anything, though it seems like he's about to more than once. Steve hadn't meant it to be anything other than a fond, light remark, but it looks like what he's actually done is make Tony uncomfortable, and he's all set to apologise when Tony starts talking.

"I know I should have called you sooner," he says. "Or at all, I guess, since you're the one who called me, but I absolutely was planning to call when I got back from visiting Peggy, I swear, not that that doesn't mean I didn't keep you waiting too long, but-"

"Hey, no," Steve interrupts, because it's taken him this long to realise Tony is Tony-apologising for what, as far as Steve is concerned, basically amounts to the fact that he's a human being with feelings. "I wasn't trying to make you feel bad, Tony. It wasn't a complaint."

"But-"

"_No_," Steve cuts in again, this time much firmer. "It was a hell of a thing I threw at you, and you're allowed to need time to deal with it, Tony. That's not something I could ever have a problem with."

The firm voice has clearly done something, because Tony doesn't carry on arguing that he shouldn't be allowed to have emotions, but he's frowning down at his lap like he wants to, and that's not really a whole lot better.

"Tony," Steve says carefully, putting his untouched drink down on the nightstand before shifting to face him head on. "I'd rather you took all the time you needed, even if it means you not speaking to me for the rest of our lives." Tony grimaces at that, and Steve is quick to clarify. "Don't get me wrong, I'd hate it, and I really would miss you, but it matters more to me that you're okay than that you like me."

Tony's still frowning, but Steve doesn't know what else to say in order to convince him, or even if anything _could_ convince him, not when Tony spends half his time determined to deny that he has feelings about anything. Emotional openness isn't entirely Steve's strong suit, either, but since Sam took it upon himself to vandalise all of Steve's misery doodles, he has been trying, and he'll keep trying, if that's what Tony needs from him.

"Tony," he says again, no idea what's supposed to follow it, but it turns out not to be necessary; Tony throws back his drink, mutters, "Fuck it," and flings himself around and into Steve's lap.

"I missed you too, Steve," he murmurs, gaze intent, focused. His hands are planted on Steve's shoulders, his body a warm weight everywhere they're touching, and Steve finds his own gaze drawn to Tony's mouth, his hands itching with the need to crush Tony to him.

_We shouldn't do this right now_, says the part of Steve's brain still capable of calm, rational thought. The list of things unresolved between them is a long one – how Tony's dealing with his parents' deaths and Bucky's part in them; Howard's possible involvement in the Winter Soldier project; why Tony decided now was the time to answer Steve's call; what it is they're doing together and whether Tony wants them to be more as much as Steve does – and they shouldn't be falling into bed together without at least acknowledging them.

They should talk about this, about everything, but Tony's knees are at either side of Steve's waist, his ass is pressing down on Steve's thighs, his lips are-

His lips are exactly as Steve remembers them, the gentle scratch of his facial hair, the way he teases and encourages and teases some more, only pausing when he absolutely has to in order to breathe, and even then it's only for as long as necessary and definitely not a second longer. His hands are everywhere, sliding under Steve's clothes and threading through his hair, and Steve is on fire, desperate for another kiss, another touch, another inch of Tony's skin bared for him to see and touch and taste.

They should talk before they do this, Steve absolutely knows that, but the rational part of his mind is definitely not running the show right now.

They can always talk tomorrow instead.


	7. Interlude One: Clint Barton, Human Disaster

"Okay," Clint says, looking up at the frowny homeless dude leaning over him. "This looks bad."

Frowny homeless dude doesn't crack a smile. Actually, he frowns more, and then pulls a knife from behind his back.

_Well, crap._

_[Image description: profile view of the scene, lit by an overhead light not visible on the picture, the halo framing the characters. Clint is in tac gear with the Hawkeye symbol on the chest, tied to a chair with ropes at his wrists and ankles. He's looking up at a frowning man wearing in all black, with long, tangled brown hair, holding a knife in his right hand.]_

"Um," Clint manages. "Please don't stab me?"

FHD doesn't reply, his eyebrows drawn so close together they're almost one, and then he reaches for Clint's right hand, hooking a gloved finger through the rope binding his wrist to the chair arm. He gives it just as intense a glower as he's been giving Clint, then sets to introducing the rope to his knife.

It's a strong rope, not prone to fraying (Clint's been dragging it over a rusty nail for the last twenty minutes, and so far it's proving a lot more durable than his wrists are), and the knots are tight, professional. All in all, he's expecting FHD to struggle at sawing through the rope, but it's a matter of seconds before Clint feels it give way, and the one on his left wrist doesn't provide any more of a challenge when he turns his attention to that.

Either FHD has impeccable taste in kitchenware, or he's properly tooled up, and Clint thinks he can probably guess which one it is.

"Thanks, man," he says, since the guy has set him free rather than knifing him, even if a _relax, I'm not going to hurt you_ wouldn't have gone amiss.

FHD takes a step back, giving Clint enough space to stand up and also to get a good look at him. The knife has vanished as quickly as it appeared, but Clint can count six – no, wait, there's something funky on his right forearm, too, so that's at least seven – weapon-shaped bulges beneath his (dirty, slightly stinky) hoody, and he's pretty sure there are others he's yet to notice; the guy's well enough armed that even Tasha would be impressed, even if she'd be way less wowed by his unkempt appearance.

Though, actually, Clint's pretty sure she's disguised herself as homeless a time or two in order to keep an eye on somewhere, so it's not like she has a leg to stand on. Or would have, if she were here. Which she isn't.

Fuck knows where she is, though.

"Okay," Clint says, because standing around sulking about Natasha's absence isn't going to hurry her back, and he and FHD should probably get the hell out of here before the pricks who tied Clint up come back again. "Don't suppose you've seen a bow anywhere?"

FHD ducks his head, hair hanging over his face, so Clint can't actually tell if he says anything, but he's fairly sure the guy hasn't broken his silent streak. He does step to one side, though, not so much gesturing to a table in the opposite corner of the room as he is deliberately unobstructing Clint's view of it.

Clint crosses to it quickly, surveying the collection of belongings the Hydra goons took from him while he was unconscious. His phone is in pieces, and the meagre amount of cash that was in his wallet is missing (seriously, he can't have had more than six bucks in there, and the fact that some prick decided to take it is even more annoying than the way they got the jump on him), but his hearing aids are still there, undamaged, and Clint breathes a metaphorical sigh of relief as he puts them back in again; he can and does go without them when he's at home, safe, but right now he'd like to have a warning if the asshats who attacked him come back.

His quiver is on the table, too, with what looks like the same number of arrows he had before, but his bow…

"_Assholes_!" Clint announces, loud enough that FHD flinches, but he's too occupied with picking up the shards of his almost new bow and muttering curses to apologise. He's going to have to ask Tony for a new one, which usually results in having to listen to him bitch about how he doesn't build them fancy, expensive equipment just for them to smash them to pieces at the earliest opportunity (not that any of them take him at all seriously, because everyone knows building new and better stuff is one of Tony's favourite things to do), but since all that shit went down between him and Steve, Tony hasn't been the same.

Did they _really_ need to smash his things up?

"Fucking assholes, goddamnit. I don't care if he was saving the world, this is all fucking Steve's fault, Jesus Christ."

FHD makes a noise that isn't a laugh, but it maybe isn't _not_ a laugh, either. It seems redundant to say it's the first sound Clint has heard from him, given that he's only just got his hearing back, but from the way the guy startles Clint thinks it actually _is _the first sound he's made since he showed up in this shithole, maybe for much longer than that.

Except for when he was Loki's bitch, Clint doesn't think he's managed to be conscious and silent for more than about twenty minutes, so for this guy to have been silent so long that sound startles him… Clint can't even imagine what that would be like, what it would take.

"Okay," Clint says, more to himself than to his new buddy, because freaking out about his Loki baggage and whatever has happened to FHD is not going to help when the goons who tied him up come back and finish the job (he's assuming either a ransom tape or bait, because they had plenty of time to kill him when he was knocked out). "What say we get the hell out of here, yeah?"

He signs along as he speaks, in case that's FHD's preferred means of communication and he's just waiting for proof that Clint will understand him before trying it. It doesn't get a whole lot more of a reaction than just speaking did, but there's no harm in keeping it up while he doesn't need his hands for fighting.

Clint jams his empty wallet and the remnants of his phone in his pocket and the pieces of his bow into his quiver, then makes for the doorway. Before he's halfway there, FHD steps in front of him, a gun in each hand.

Clint revises the count of concealed weapons up to eight, since he's got no idea at all where the second gun came from.

He's not at all expecting it when FHD holds out the gun in his left hand, tilting it in Clint's direction when he doesn't immediately take it.

"Just to check, that's an offer and not a threat, right?" He's pretty sure, but it'll hurt less to check than it will to get shot, and Clint's three cracked ribs are already painful enough.

Still mute, FHD jerks the gun at him again, and this time Clint takes it from him. It's instinct to check the number of rounds in the magazine (four, and a fifth in the chamber, not ideal but Clint's done more with a lot less), then thumb off the safety and stand to one side as FHD opens the door.

Doing so turns out to be unnecessary, because the first thing Clint sees when he steps into the hallway on the other side is a disorganised heap of bodies.

"Could have told me you'd already cleared the place," he says, relaxing slightly as he puts the safety back on. FHD shrugs, a lopsided, unnatural seeming gesture, and Clint looks back at the heap. "Are they dead?" he asks, and then, in case the dude thinks he's judging him, adds, "I mean, it doesn't much matter either way, but I'll want to call it in if they're going to wake up."

FHD shrugs a second time, still seeming unfamiliar with how that's supposed to work, and tilts his left hand (now holding yet another wickedly sharp knife); Clint assumes this means he isn't entirely sure, and sets to checking pulses. To his surprise, he finds all but one of them is alive; that one, he leaves, but the others he binds with belts and bootlaces before confiscating the contents of their pockets. No weapons on any of them, which is definitely not how Clint remembers his fun introduction to them going; he assumes FHD helped himself to anything stabby or shooty when he knocked the goons out, which makes giving Clint a half empty gun kind of a dick move (though since he took out a Hydra team and cut Clint loose, he maybe shouldn't complain too much).

He carries his bounty of phones, wallets, keys, scraps of paper, and other super-exciting things away from the unconscious Hydra agents, looking for anything that might suggest why they're in town. From their reactions when he stumbled into their building, Clint's pretty sure he's not the one they were after, but there doesn't seem to be any information in there, no handy-dandy maps with X marking the spot or neat and tidy to do lists of instructions. Maybe there's something on one or more of their phones, but he'll need to take them back to the Tower and let Tony and JARVIS have at them in order to find out.

"Okay," he says, giving up on finding anything useful. "Time to call this in. Can I offer you a lift somewhere? Maybe buy you a beer to say thanks?"

Unsurprisingly, FHD doesn't answer. Clint looks up to see if he's nodding or shaking his head or something, but his mysterious rescuer has vanished. He stands up and moves down the hallway to the door at the other end, looking up and down the street outside for any sign of the man. He's gone, though, disappearing so completely he might as well never have been there.

"Huh," Clint says, heading back inside. He uses the dead guy's thumb to unlock his phone, then dials JARVIS, having forced the number to stick in his brain after one too many instances of regaining consciousness to find his phone smashed or missing. It rings twice, same as always, and then there's an empty, absolute silence, also same as always when JARVIS doesn't know the number that's calling him.

"Hey, man," Clint says. "Stumbled across a nest of Hydra mooks, there anyone in town to help take them into custody?"


	8. Chapter Six

Steve drifts on the edge of consciousness, more relaxed than he's been in a long time. After months of lumpy mattresses in uncomfortable motel rooms or hostel dormitories, even a cheap hotel would be a luxury, and the place Tony has picked is a long, long way from being a cheap hotel. The bathroom is beyond opulent, the air-conditioning has the room at the perfect temperature, and the bed is the largest Steve has ever seen and every bit as comfortable as those back in the Tower.

The fact that Steve isn't in it alone is pretty fantastic, too.

Tony is still curled up next to him, still fast asleep, soft and warm at Steve's side. His breath comes in gentle little puffs against Steve's skin, his near-constant fidgeting is reduced to only the occasional twitch, and he seems more at peace now than he ever is awake.

It's the first time since he found out Bucky's alive that Steve hasn't woken up and immediately leapt out of bed, ready to resume searching the second Sam woke up.

He still wants – _needs_ – to find Bucky, but it won't reduce his chances of finding him if he waits until after Tony wakes up and they have the conversation Steve should have made sure they had last night. It's okay for him to rest, at least a little longer.

He's not sure how long he's been dozing when Tony begins to stir, the sheets whispering against his skin as he stretches. He lets out a sleepy little murmur, and Steve is only a second away from rolling onto his side and pressing a kiss to the back of his neck when Tony curses under his breath. "_Shit_."

Steve's blood runs cold, and it's suddenly very important that he not let on that he's awake.

Tony regrets this.

Of course he does, Steve realises, as Tony exhales further curses, inching his way out of the bed. Tony showed up to help because he's a fundamentally decent person, far more so than he gives himself credit for being, and then the adrenaline hit, the giddy rush of relief that they were both alive and unharmed, and good sense flew out the window. He wasn't thinking about the vast gulf between them when they fell into bed last night, neither of them were, and it was just like when they first started sleeping together, equal parts surprising and thrilling. Steve was too caught up in the moment to slow it down, too delighted to have another chance at something he'd thought he'd lost to make sure Tony was going to be okay with it when he woke up in the morning.

Tony's getting dressed now, Steve can tell as much without opening his eyes. He can picture it just from what he can hear: the soft whisper of material as he pulls his shirt over his head; the zip of his fly and shthwap of leather as he fastens his belt; the faint thud of his hand against the desk as he leans against it to slide his shoes back on, one foot at a time. Steve helped him take off most of those clothes last night, touched just about every inch of the skin Tony's just covered up again, and it was good, it was _so good_; Steve wouldn't take it back for _anything_, and it's only now, as he listens to Tony try to sneak out of there without waking him, that he realises just how much it mattered to him.

It doesn't matter to Tony, at least not in any good way.

There's the scratch of pen on paper, followed by the sound of Tony's footsteps as he rounds the bed; even against a carpet as thick as this one, Steve can still make out each step he takes. He pauses a moment at Steve's side of the bed, presumably so he can put whatever note he's scribbled on the bedside table, and then he's gone, the door snicking quietly closed behind him.

Steve sits up the second it does, reaching for the note, hoping against hope that it'll tell him something else, something good, something to convince him that this isn't what he thinks it is.

_Call me_, he reads, which is promising, but the next sentence has his heart sinking. _We need to talk_. There's nothing else, just a very wonky _t _in place of a signature, like Tony didn't even want to put his whole name to it.

Steve might not be an expert in 21st century pop culture, but he knows enough to know what that means.

Tony regrets it.

Only and entirely because of that, Steve does too.

X

It's already light out when Tony opens his eyes, and once the easy warmth of waking up next to Steve fades, panic sets in. Not about Steve, definitely not that, and if it was up to him, he'd happily have stayed there a very, very long time, maybe even see if he could talk Steve into spending a few days in the city with him rather than racing off after Barnes right away.

It's not up to him, though. The world is ticking on just fine, mass destruction has been averted, and Tony believes Pepper will absolutely follow through on any and all threats she's made regarding his anatomy if he's not back at the Tower in time for her meeting.

He's forgetting something.

Steve is still asleep when Tony gets out of bed, which is not something he can remember happening before. He's always woken up first, his internal alarm set to hellishly early o'clock, and the fact that he's barely even stirred means he really must need his sleep; as much as he really doesn't want to fuck and run, Tony isn't about to wake him if he doesn't have to.

He dresses as quickly and quietly as he can, wishing he had time for a shower, then scrawls a quick note to Steve, handwriting as messy as it always is, signing off with a kiss in place of his name. It's sappy as anything, but it's also more personal, and Tony hopes Steve will see it and understand everything he hasn't managed to put into words.

The note goes on the nightstand as Steve's side of the bed, and then Tony stands there a moment, mentally debating the merits of a goodbye kiss. It's what he wants, but even a kiss to Steve's forehead will wake him up, and then they'll wind up kissing properly and Tony will be even later than he already is.

It's fine, Tony tells himself, making his way up to the hotel roof to retrieve the suit from the quinjet. Steve'll call him once he wakes up, and they can arrange another time to meet up when Tony's schedule is completely clear for a few days.

He waits until he's out over the Atlantic before asking JARVIS to put a call through to Pepper, then has to confirm that yes, he's fully expecting her to be pissed off with him, but he does actually want to talk to her.

Pepper's cell rings a dozen times before she picks up, growling, "_What_?" in a tone every bit as exasperated as Tony was expecting.

"I know, I know, I'm late," he says, not really making a whole lot of effort not to sound like the proverbial cat, surrounded by a handful of yellow feathers and the family bird suspiciously absent. Anyone who spent the night with Steve Rogers is entitled to a little smugness, and even if Tony's not announcing who he woke up next to this morning, he still gets to be damn smug about it. "I was out to all hours fighting fascists, I'm sure you know how it is."

"It's five in the morning, Tony," Pepper snaps. "If waking me up half an hour before my alarm goes off is your petty revenge for needing you to be at this meeting later on, I am really not impressed."

"What?" Tony answers, "Pep, no, it's- _Shit!_"

Because Tony's just realised exactly what it is he'd forgotten.

The goddamn fucking time difference.

Clearly, thoroughly enjoyable sex followed by sleeping a full eight hours has completely addled Tony's brain, otherwise he would have realised that waking up at half past ten in the morning in Barcelona still gives him over three hours to get back to Manhattan for the meeting at eight.

"Shit," he says again. "Pepper, I swear, I thought I was late, I-"

"Forgot that Europe is in a different time zone?" Pepper asks, her annoyance now replaced by amusement at his expense. "For a genius, you aren't half stupid sometimes, Tony."

"Yeah, sure, laugh it up. At least you know I won't be late this time…"

"Good_bye_, Tony," she answers, laughing, and hangs up.

"You could have told me, J," Tony grumbles.

"I hadn't realised you were unaware, Sir," JARVIS replies, every bit as smug as Tony was a few minutes ago.

Tony hmphs, and returns to daydreaming, this time about how his morning might have gone, if he only had a brain; figuring out the time difference before he left might not have given him a whole lot of wiggle room, but he could have spent a little more time in bed with Steve, spared a few minutes more to write a better note that actually explained why he was rushing off, maybe if Steve had woken up while he was writing he could even have gotten that goodbye kiss he's spent the last half hour wishing he'd had.

Tony might be a genius, but that doesn't mean he's not also a fucking idiot sometimes.

X

Steve allows himself two minutes to sit there, wallowing in self-pity, before forcing himself to get out of bed and into the shower, which is every bit as ridiculously luxurious as the rest of the hotel. He would have enjoyed it, he thinks, if Tony was here with him. They could have made a solid (though probably unsuccessful) attempt to use up all the hot water, and had a whole lot of fun in the process.

Without him, the whole thing crosses the line from extravagant to excessive, and Steve doesn't linger, scrubbing roughly at his skin and foregoing shampoo on his wet hair.

He dries himself just as quickly, then pulls on the clothes he was wearing last night, checking his pockets for his cellphone and room key. They're both still there, along with a text message from Sam letting Steve know he's gone down to breakfast and that he should join him if he ever wakes up.

As if on cue, Steve's stomach rumbles, reminding him that the last meal he had was at lunchtime yesterday and he needs to eat whether he feels like it or not; he pockets his cell and the note from Tony, glances around the room to check neither he nor Tony have forgotten anything, and takes the stairs on his way down to the hotel restaurant.

He fills a plate from the breakfast buffet, piled high enough that he gets dirty looks from more than one member of staff, and apathetically prepares himself tea in the largest mug he can find (Peggy used to extol the virtues of a good cup of tea, and since caffeine does nothing for him Steve figures he might as well give it a try) before scanning the room for wherever Sam's sat.

He's on his own at a table in the corner, far enough off to the side that none of the waitstaff seem to be trying to hurry him away even though his plate is empty. Steve joins him, nudging an empty chair out with his foot and dropping into it heavily, frowning down at his plate.

"Morning," he says, far too tired given how long he slept for.

Rather than replying, Sam looks between Steve's mug, his plate, and Steve himself. "Oh, man," he says, not unkindly, putting down his book. "Steve, what happened?"

Steve shrugs, picking at a slice of dry toast (possibly why his food got a concerned look from Sam, since Steve doesn't seem to have picked up anything to actually put on his toast). He doesn't overly want to tell Sam, even in the fairly vague way he's been talking about his relationship with Tony; he knows Sam is asking out of concern, and Steve loves him for it, but that doesn't mean he wants to talk about what happened last night/this morning.

"Really?" Sam asks. "Either you or Stark has done something stupid, and you know you're going to tell me about it."

"Can I not keep my stupidity to myself this once?"

"I mean, you can," Sam agrees easily. "But _a problem shared is a problem halved_ and all that. Talking is good."

Abruptly, Steve is back in the moment before Tony kissed him, the second when he thought about stopping him, insisting on having a conversation. He probably still wouldn't be spending this morning with Tony if he'd had the willpower to insist on talking rather than sleeping together. They most likely would have ended up arguing within minutes, leaving nothing resolved and everything between them far worse than it was before, but Steve might not feel as awful as he does right now.

He wouldn't have been blindsided by it, at any rate.

Sam's right. Steve should definitely talk more.

"I went to see Tony last night," he says. "I think I was planning on talking to him about how he's doing, and about- about us, but, well…" Steve fidgets a little, his face heating, very much uncomfortable with discussing his sex life in such a public location.

Sam, saint that he is, puts Steve out of his misery. "Didn't manage a whole load of talking, did you?" He's grinning, looking far too pleased at this news, at least until he remembers how this conversation started. "I'm getting the impression you don't think that's a good thing. What, not as good as you remember?"

_Better_, Steve thinks, feeling his blush deepening. "That's not… Tony snuck out while I was asleep."

"Snuck?"

"That's what I said," Steve answers, a little too defensively.

Sam leans back in his chair, hands raised in surrender. "Okay," he says calmly. "I just thought it was an interesting word choice. I mean, how did you know he was sneaking, if you were asleep?"

"That's not…" Steve trails off, because even if it wasn't his point, he can't deny that it's _a_ point, and not a question it's unreasonable for Sam to ask. "Fine, Tony _left_ while he _thought _I was asleep."

"And you didn't stop him because…?"

"When someone wakes up next to you muttering _shit shit shit_, pretending to be asleep seems like the best option."

Sam sucks in a breath. "He what?"

Since Steve's of the opinion that his words were pretty much self-explanatory, he doesn't both repeating them.

"Okay," Sam says. "I completely get why you didn't let on that you were awake, but, man, I spoke to Tony yesterday and I would have bet my life that the two of you were on the same page. He didn't text you or anything?"

"No," Steve answers. It's not entirely a lie, because Tony didn't text him, and if Steve says anything about the note Sam will just tell him to call, hear Tony out. Worse, Sam'll sound so reasonable and logical about it that Steve will think it's a good idea. He'll call, and Tony will make a joke of it, tell Steve that it was fun, sure, but that it would be better if they didn't do it again. It would be better if Steve stayed away, for good this time.

He should leave Tony the hell alone, is what Tony will say, and Steve can do that without having to hear it from him.

Steve's given talking enough of a chance for one day.

"It's over, okay," he says. "Can we just leave it, Sam?"

Sam gives him a steady, stern look. "Hey, man, I'm not gonna force you to talk if you don't want to," he answers. "Just remember, I'm around if you change your mind."

"I know," Steve says, starting on his second slice of dry toast. "Thanks, Sam."

"Any time, pal," Sam says, grimacing. "Jesus, Steve, I am not watching you eat that shit. Go get some jelly or something."

Steve looks down at his terrible, mindlessly chosen breakfast plate, and sighs, standing up.

"And grab me another coffee, too!" Sam calls after him.

X

Steve hasn't called by the time Tony crosses into US air-space. He's had a text from Bruce asking where he is, then another few detailing his plans to spend the day sightseeing with Steve and Wilson. He's got yet another voicemail from Rhodey warning him that the Avengers really should start getting permission from heads of state before entering foreign countries on non-emergency missions. His inbox is full of the usual chaotic mix of emails from different SI departments, from scientists asking for a consult and from charitable foundations asking for donations or public declarations of support.

He's got nothing at all from Steve.

It's fine. Steve's busy taking selfies with Bruce and Wilson in the _Parc Güell_, fanboying over Gaudí. He's just not calling when the others are around to overhear. That's all it is.

He's not called by the time Tony arrives at the Tower, or when he stumbles out of the shower and into a slightly more conventional suit half an hour later, nor does he ring at any point during the interminably long meeting with Fujikawa Industries (during which Tony ignores no fewer than fifteen furious glares and three shin kicks from Pepper for paying more attention to his cell than to the topics under discussion).

By the time Bruce gets back just after sunset and there's still been no contact from Steve, Tony's starting to get the picture.


	9. Chapter Seven

It's a bit of a surprise when the only people who answer Clint's distress call are Hill's minions. Not that he's complaining, because the Hill-clones are scary efficient (in addition to being practically indistinguishable from one another) and Clint's out of there barely twenty minutes after they rock up, but it might be nice for his teammates to express maybe a little bit of concern for him.

He grumbles his way back to the Tower, into the elevator, and up to the team kitchen, where he finds Pepper and Bruce eating sushi as they scroll through what seems to be someone's twitter feed and Tony mainlining coffee and determinedly keeping his back turned on the holoscreen.

As such, he's the first to notice Clint's arrival, and the first to greet him, even if his tone turns words that ought to be a joke into something decidedly less friendly. "Well, look what the cat dragged in."

"Hi, Clint," Pepper says, much more nicely. "Don't mind Tony, he's sulking but won't tell anyone why."

"Am not," Tony mutters sulkily.

Bruce and Pepper send Clint identical _see what we're talking about _looks, and Bruce nudges a chair out with his foot.

"Help yourself," he says, gesturing to the sushi platter, and then, "Are you limping?"

"Little bit," Clint answers lightly, frowning down at his right ankle, which started twinging after the adrenaline of his escape/rescue wore off and only twinged more the further he walked. "Don't worry about it. What're you looking at?"

Pepper waits until he's helped himself to a few salmon nigiri and one of those daft little cups of hot sake before answering. "Bruce was just telling me about his afternoon in Barcelona," she explains.

"Don't let me interrupt, then," Clint says, promptly making a start on his dinner as Bruce picks up his story again, talking about this sculpture and that building, what Sam said about one thing and how Steve spent twenty minutes staring at another without saying a single thing, and it's at that point that Clint realises what's odd about this story. "Hang on, when was this?" he interrupts.

"This afternoon?" Bruce says, inflection very definitely making a question of it, like somehow Clint is supposed to have the answer already. "I got back about ten minutes before you did."

"Sorry, what?" Clint asks, outrage only half feigned. "Well, I guess that's why none of you showed up when I called JARVIS for backup. Seriously, guys, I get kidnapped, and you lot are all too busy swanning around fancy museums to even notice I was gone!"

At this, Tony turns around, full on glowering at the photo of Steve staring at a lizard sculpture currently occupying the holoscreen. "Okay, so, first off, not all of us spent the day pissing around looking at pretty sculptures, second, we worked very hard to obliterate a Hydra base before anyone even thought about swanning around, and thirdly, you don't even live here half the time, how were we supposed you hadn't just ambled off somewhere?"

_Ohhhkay then_, Clint thinks, turning to the two people in the room who don't seem to have gone completely insane since the last time he saw them. Unfortunately, they both look just as confused as Clint feels, so his silent plea for an explanation goes unanswered.

"What I'm sure Tony _meant_ to say," Bruce says after a moment, his tone very pointed. "Is that we're very sorry we didn't realise you were kidnapped rather than just misplaced your cell. Do you need anything looking at?"

"What? No, I'm fine, just my ankle and a few cuts and bruises," Clint answers, waving off Bruce's concern with a dismissiveness only slightly resulting from his hatred of any kind of medical facilities. "This super angry hobo showed up and knocked them all out before they could do too much damage. I offered to buy him a beer, but I guess he wasn't thirsty."

The other three are silent for a bit, and then Pepper tilts her head to one side and says, "Should we be worried about this? It's so hard to tell with you all."

Clint tips back on his chair, drags his next piece of sushi through the puddle of soy sauce in the middle of his place, and laughs. "Nah," he says, "'S just an average Tuesday, this."

He pops the avocado roll in his mouth, then promptly slams all four chair legs back onto the floor and dashes to the sink, sticking his mouth straight under the tap.

Goddamn wasabi.

X

Bruce doesn't want to say that Tony is behaving strangely, since that would imply his behaviour has some sort of baseline normalcy to it, but… Well, no, he's behaving strangely, whether Bruce wants to say it or not, and it's becoming increasingly obvious that Bruce isn't the only one to notice.

"I just wish I knew what was bothering him," Pepper murmurs over coffee and cake four days after the mission.

"I've asked," Bruce tells her, exasperated. "On the rare occasion he acknowledges he's not himself, he says he doesn't want to talk about it. The last time I saw him acting like this was when you broke up with him."

"Oh," Pepper breathes, looking terribly regretful for a brief moment before carefully masking it. "Did you know he was seeing someone?"

Bruce shakes his head, thinking back over the last few… months, really; certainly, Tony has been both more maudlin and more irritable since they returned from Barcelona, but his behaviour changed before that. Tony's reclusivity, his increased determination to seal himself inside his workshop and never leave, his shift from eagerness to sullen reluctance to get involved in missions – all of this started months ago, and whilst at the time Bruce put it down to the revelation about his parents' deaths, he has to wonder if perhaps that wasn't the only reason.

Even when he had a permanent home in Washington, Steve still came by the Tower reasonably often, but he hasn't visited in months, not since he told Tony and only Tony the Winter Soldier's identity. Bruce assumed it was because Steve felt his determination to find Barnes put him too much at odds with Tony, has even considered the possibility that Tony has suggested he not return (though, honestly, Bruce can't actually see Tony doing something so unkind, however hurt he may be), but…

There's other things, too. The endless and sort of affectionate snark and bickering. How often Steve volunteered to be the one to take food to Tony. The way Steve's visits to the city increased in frequency a few months after Tony and Pepper separated. The fact that Steve didn't smile once while they were sight-seeing in Barcelona, despite Bruce once having witnessed he and Pepper spend three hours straight geeking out over the greatest architects of the twentieth century.

Bruce can't dismiss the possibility that he's reading entirely too much into things, because surely Tony 'Overshare' Stark wouldn't have kept quiet about the fact that he was seeing Steve, not given how enthusiastically he's raved about the man's assets. Then again, Steve is as reserved a person as Tony is extroverted, so perhaps he's managed to curb Tony's more explicit impulses, meaning Bruce also can't dismiss the possibility that he's _not _reading too much into things.

Either way, he's not comfortable discussing the possibility with Pepper, for reasons that have very little to do with his uncertainty and everything to do with her past relationship with Tony.

"I suppose there's a slight chance he's told Colonel Rhodes," Bruce says eventually. "Failing that, the next option would be actually asking Tony, but I can't see that going well."

"If he's not told anyone so far, there's no way he'd answer us now," Pepper agrees sadly. "And I've no doubt you'd be just as reticent, wouldn't you, JARVIS?"

"Surprising as it may be, Sir has actually provided me with some guidelines regarding privacy," JARVIS confirms. "Without his permission, I am unable to provide you with any new information."

That, Bruce thinks, is an interesting way of putting it. Again, there's a possibility he's over-thinking this, but JARVIS specifically said he can't give _new_ information, not that he can't tell them anything at all, meaning perhaps Bruce has more options than risking embarrassment and possible mockery by asking Tony or Steve.

"That's that, then," Pepper says. "Maybe we'll get lucky, and he'll decide to pull his head out of his ass all on his own."

"One can only dream, Ms Potts," JARVIS replies dryly.

Pepper departs for her next meeting shortly after this, while Bruce remains in the kitchen, picking at another slice of cake and trying to decide if he really wants to meddle in Tony's personal life the way he's about to. Reluctantly, he thinks he does, but he's also well aware of how inquisitive his friends are, and in the event that he is wrong he would prefer not to accidentally start a rumour that will undoubtedly work its way back to Steve and Tony eventually.

"JARVIS?" he says cautiously. "There's no one else within hearing range, is there?"

"The only person whose presence I detect is yourself, Doctor Banner."

"Thanks," Bruce says, spending another few moments pondering his next words, then decides he might as well just go for it. "I'd never ask you to tell me anything Tony's specifically told you not to, but if I was to talk to him about someone, you wouldn't let me make a fool of myself by mentioning the wrong person, would you?"

JARVIS doesn't answer immediately, delaying longer than Bruce has ever known him to. It can't possibly take him so long to work out whether offering confirmation is within his parameters, so Bruce has to assume it results from a conflict between what he wants to do, what he considers to be of greatest benefit to Tony, and what he thinks Tony actually wants him to do.

"I believe you have Sir's best interest at heart, Doctor Banner," he says eventually "As such, I will endeavour to be of assistance to you." There's a pause, and the room gets noticeably cooler as he continues. "Should you ever give me cause to believe otherwise, please rest assured that I am both capable of and willing to make your life very difficult."

Despite the fact that he is very definitely being threatened, Bruce can't help smiling. "I don't intend to give you reason to," he says, taking a deep, almost reassuring breath before adding, "And I would hope Steve never does either."

The temperature returns to normal, and the lights brighten momentarily in a way Bruce _knows _can't be down to bad wiring (as if Tony would ever allow such a thing).

"It is now almost thirteen hours since Sir last ate," JARVIS says, which seems to Bruce to be both an entirely unrelated statement and implicit confirmation. "As I understand it, desserts are considered comforting in times of emotional distress – perhaps taking Sir a slice of cake would be the best solution to both problems?"

"I'll do that, then," Bruce agrees, offering JARVIS/the room a fond smile as he heads to the cupboard for a clean plate. "Thanks, JARVIS."

X

"So," Bruce says, which is the first indication Tony gets that someone is in his space; for some unknown reason, JARVIS has neglected to warn him he has incoming, and Tony's all set to berate him for it when Bruce continues. "You and Steve, huh?"

_Oh shit_ is Tony's immediate thought, followed closely by _no way_. He and Steve had been fooling around for months without anyone knowing about it, and it makes zero sense for Bruce to have figured it out now that Steve's made it perfectly clear it's not happening again.

No. Just no. Bruce has got to be talking about something else.

Tony reaches for the closest mug, trying to stall long enough to work out what it is. He doesn't realise until it's at his mouth that the mug is unfortunately empty, but Bruce doesn't know that; Tony styles it out, smacking his lips as he puts it back down, and he still has no idea at all what the fuck Bruce could be talking about other than the obvious. Clearly, it's time to play dumb. "Sorry, me and who?"

(Okay, fine. Playing dumb is clearly not one of Tony's many strengths.)

"Really, Tony?" Bruce sighs, every bit as dramatic and overacted as Tony's fake-drinking. "Steve Rogers. Tall, blond, basically sex-on-a-stick, according to people who swing that way. Any of this ringing a bell?"

"Oh, that Steve," Tony says dismissively, his best and most innocent smile firmly in place. "What about him?"

"I swear, I have no idea how Pepper and James have put up with you so long," Bruce mutters.

Tony scoffs, reaching for another mug, this time finding an inch of coffee at the bottom, thank god. "Don't lie, everyone knows you love me, Bruce."

Bruce sighs again, taking the mug away from him because he's a sadistic evil monster. "Give it up, Tony. I know you were dating Steve."

_Fine_. Clearly this is exactly what Tony thought it was, but that doesn't mean he's going to talk about it. He's ignored JARVIS' efforts to needle him about Steve for this long, he's sure as hell not going to give in to Bruce's attempt now.

"It's fine, you can keep that," he says, nodding at his mug in Bruce's hand. "I'll get a fresh one."

He spins his stool around, standing up and weaving his way through the shop to the coffee maker. There's still some in the pot, but Tony's fairly sure DUM-E made it; he empties it down the sink without bothering to try work out what today's unconventional ingredients are, then sets about making a new pot.

Bruce follows him, somehow magicking up two clean mugs on his way and putting them on the countertop. He rests a hand on Tony's shoulder, and Tony puts a lot of effort into not shrugging it off.

"How long were you two together?" Bruce asks; despite Tony's best efforts to completely ignore his questions, Bruce hass apparently not got the message just yet, so Tony's going to have to be really fucking blunt about it.

"I don't want to talk about it, Bruce."

"Believe it or not, I'd worked that out," Bruce answers, dry as dust. "But Pepper, JARVIS and I are worried about you, and I really think you need to talk to someone."

"_JARVIS,_" Tony repeats, more incredulity than it is a question. "You got my AI gossiping about me now? Pretty sure there's supposed to be a cone of silence when it comes to stuff like that, buddy."

"I assure you, I have been the very soul of discretion, Sir," JARVIS answers, every fan in the room whirring just a bit faster to display his indignation.

Indignant or not, he's also never been a liar, so Tony believes him even before Bruce says, "JARVIS didn't say anything. I figured it out on my own, and as far as I'm aware I'm the only one who knows."

"Wilson does," Tony answers without thinking. "I mean, I think he does, anyway."

Bruce _hmm_s, then nudges Tony aside, pouring coffee into both mugs and adding an insane amount of sugar to one of them. They both got over the desire to dilute their caffeine with milk decades ago, so neither of them is disappointed by the fact that the workshop fridge doesn't have any. "I brought cake," he says. "We're going to sit down, you're going to eat something, and then we're going to talk like adults rather than locking ourselves in our workshops and sulking like children, okay? And when I say _we_, I do mean _you_."

"Ugh," Tony answers, then says it again just for good measure. "_Ugh_."

Still, he allows Bruce to herd him over to the beat-up couch Tony has spent the last decade refusing to replace, sitting when Bruce gives him a very pointed look, then claims his unsugared coffee and, less enthusiastically, the cake.

"Fine," Tony says, which is as close to a _thank you _as he's going to get, given that Bruce is pushing him into emotional honesty or whatever. "What is it you want to know?"

Bruce sits down next to him, his expression the spitting image of Tony's high school principal whenever Tony accidentally managed to piss him off. "This isn't some gossip session, Tony," Bruce tells him firmly. "You're clearly miserable as hell, and since there's no chance you'll speak to an actual therapist, I figured you'd prefer talking to someone who knows who you're upset over. But if you'd rather I got Pepper, I can do that."

"Ohpleaseno," is Tony's knee jerk reaction, which, he realises a split second too late, is probably exactly what Bruce wanted. 

"Okay," Bruce agrees, still wearing his _I'm not angry, I just want you to tell the truth _face (and, hey, at least in this case Tony knows it's not just some line to wring a confession out of him; if Bruce was angry, they'd all know about it). "So…?"

"Ugh," Tony says again, though by now he's mostly resigned himself to the mortification of talking about his shitty non-love life. But, whatever, he'll do it, and if he's really lucky Bruce will fall asleep again and Tony will get the supposed cathartic benefit of spilling his guts without the person he's spilling them to actually remembering it.

"Right," he starts, pausing for a moment to take a gulp of his coffee, then pushes himself to actually goddamn say something, and where better to start than the beginning? "Okay, so, first of all, Steve and I weren't ever _together_."

"_Tony_," Bruce cuts in, with yet another fucking sigh. "This'll go better if you're honest. With yourself, even if you won't be honest with me."

"I _am _being honest," Tony protests, offended. "I'm not saying we weren't, you know, _physical_, but we weren't _together_-together. Just… fooling around, I guess."

"Oh," Bruce says. "You're telling me you and Steve were friends-with-benefits?"

"Don't give me that look, Bruce, it wasn't my idea." Still, Tony's not actually all that offended by his scepticism, since his own reaction to Steve first suggesting it was every bit as disbelieving, with a healthy measure of surprise mixed in. "It was… Okay, the first time, it was after the thing with the sewer 'gators, a few months after me and Pepper broke up. You remember, Steve nearly lost a leg to one of them, and we got back all hyped up on adrenaline and relief, and it just- happened, Jesus, Bruce, you have no idea-"

He's interrupted by Bruce clearing his throat, his demeanour more than a little uncomfortable. "I don't need details, Tony," he says.

_Okay_, Tony thinks. He knows that. This is Bruce, not Clint or Thor, and he's a lot less comfortable either hearing or sharing tales of past exploits than they are. And, even if he wasn't talking to Bruce, it's not just him he's talking about, and Steve is every bit as private as Bruce is about his sex life, so Tony should absolutely not give anything in the way of details.

"Yeah," he says, "Okay, yeah, sorry, Brucie-kins."

Bruce dismisses his apology, then makes a gesture Tony interprets as an instruction to continue; Tony picks up again, slightly later on in the series of events than before Bruce's interruption.

"So, anyway, I woke up the morning after, and he'd- He'd made breakfast for us, coffee and pancakes," Tony pauses, remembering, and it's pretty much mortifying how fond he sounds as he continues. "Swear to god, they were some of the worst pancakes I've ever had, but he'd tried so hard, and I was about to ask him if he wanted to do dinner but before I could he got all _I know that attitudes have changed, so I understand if it didn't mean anything to you, but I had a good time and I hope you did too, so I thought perhaps we could do it again, if- if that was something you wanted_."

(Because, fine, maybe Tony remembers it word for word, but it's not like being rejected before he's even asked someone out is an everyday occurrence, it's burned into his memory pretty damn well.)

"And you said…?" Bruce prompts after a moment, as if it's not absolutely fucking obviously what Tony's response to that was going to be.

"I said yes," Tony answers, carefully holding back the _duh_ that wants to follow, on account of how he likes Bruce and Rhodey says he needs to start being better to the people he likes. "Or, well, I said _you're saying you want to be fuck-buddies? _and he said _oh, um, only if that's what you want_ and _then_ I said yes, because who the hell is going to turn that down, even if it isn't exactly what I wanted, and… yeah. Here we are."

Bruce is quiet, _too_ quiet, and for so long that Tony looks away from his empty mug and half-eaten slice of cake and at his friend. This is clearly what Bruce has been waiting for, because he sort of _hmm_s under his breath, the sound low and every bit as sceptical as his expression.

"That's what happened," Tony says, and if that sounds overly defensive then his next words are even more so. "J, back me up."

"Sir's recollection of the conversation is accurate, Doctor Banner," JARVIS confirms, his tone as calm and even as always, but for some reason he decides against stopping there. "However, I think perhaps the nuances may have escaped Sir's notice."

"Yes, I think they might have," Bruce agrees softly, while Tony is still gaping as JARVIS' disloyalty (because the _nuances_, as far as he's concerned, are that Steve thought he was good for the occasional fuck and not a whole lot more than that, and JARVIS needs to get with the program here). "Are you sure that was his suggestion, Tony?"

"Er, yeah, pretty sure. I mean, since I was the one who was there and all."

"But aren't you the one who said it?"

"Only because it was clearly where he was heading," Tony argues, then takes a moment to collect himself before raising his most logical of arguments. "If that wasn't what he wanted, don't you think he'd have said something since then?"

Bruce shakes his head, just a little. "The same way you did?"

"Yeah, because rejection is exactly what I live for!"

His outburst is met with silence, even from JARVIS, and Tony lurches up from the sofa, storming across to the coffee pot and pouring himself another cup. He's halfway through it before he feels balanced enough to turn around again, leaning back against the counter and looking back at Bruce.

"Look," he says, faking calmness as best he can. "It was what it was, and then he told me his ex killed my parents and we broke it off so Steve could search for him. It doesn't matter who suggested it, because the whole thing's moot anyway."

Bruce is still silent, though his expression is now more thoughtful than it is perturbed. Tony tops off his coffee again while he waits, because it's definitely not his turn to say anything more, and eventually Bruce seems to get his thoughts in order enough to speak up. "Something else happened in Spain, though, didn't it? You've been a lot more… _this _since then."

_This_, Tony's mind repeats, not sure how he feels about that, if it's better or worse than whatever words Bruce might have been thinking. It's definitely more neutral than everything Tony's considering – maudlin, mean, absolutely fucking miserable, and that's only the _M_s – but Tony doesn't actually know if he prefers neutrality when it means he's imagining how the sentence ends rather than knowing it.

"Tony?" Bruce prompts.

_Well, whatever_, Tony decides. Chances are, he's both heard and thought for himself a great many things worse than anything Bruce could come up with, so it hardly matters anyway, and if he's already told Bruce this much he might as well go all out.

"You might not have noticed, I think I've been pretty subtle about it, but the whole _my parents were assassinated_ thing has kind of fucked with my head, and Steve and I haven't exactly talked since then. He's called, I've not answered, it's been a whole awkward mess, and then when we were there it seemed like we might be able to be friends again, even if that's all he wants, so I went to find him in his room only he didn't answer because, as I learned when I got back to my room, he'd come to find me, and we didn't exactly get much talking done, if you know what I mean. Adrenaline, all that, it's kind of our style, it was great fun and I thought maybe, _maybe_, we might be able to figure something out, but… He hasn't called, okay?"

That was quite a lot for one go, Tony realises, and the fact that Bruce takes his sweet time suggests he thinks so too. Or, Tony realises, once Bruce actually does speak, he's just trying to psych himself up to say something he knows Tony isn't going to go for.

"I know I'm making a radical suggestion here, Tony, but you could call him?"

Tony laughs. "Yeah, no, that's not happening."

"Because…?"

"I left a note. Yeah, I fucked up the time difference, and yeah, I left while he was sleeping, but I left him a note asking him to call so we could talk about it and figure out if there was a way we could work given the whole _Bucky_ of it all, and he hasn't." Tony shakes his head, swaps his empty mug for the closest screwdriver just so that he has something to do with his hands. "I reached out, and he hasn't reached back."

"I'm sorry, Tony. That must suck."

"Yuh-huh."

Bruce smiles, not happily, more like he's just trying to be supportive, and then shakes his head. "I'm finding it hard to believe he'd do something like that," he says softly.

"Well, that's what happened," Tony snaps, immediately defensive again. "Hate to break it to you, Bruce, but Captain America isn't perfect."

"I know, Tony," Bruce agrees, his hands raised, palms facing outwards, and it's funny, isn't it, that his placating gesture is almost exactly the same as Tony's attacking one. Or, well, not funny, and probably not ironic, either. Just a coincidence. "It was pretty clear on the helicarrier that he's every bit as human as the rest of us. I'm just wondering if maybe he misunderstood something."

Tony fails entirely at scoffing at that. "Pretty sure _call me_ doesn't leave a whole lot up to interpretation," he mutters.

"No, maybe not," Bruce agrees. "Still, I think you should consider calling him. At the very least, he owes you an explanation."

There is absolutely nothing Tony can say to this that he hasn't already said. Yeah, he'd like an explanation, some indication of why Steve's spent months calling him only to give up entirely after they slept together, but he's not going to get one, and he's not reaching out only to be disappointed again.

"Okay," Bruce says, standing up and approaching Tony's primary worktable. "Talk over. Do you want to tell me what you're working on?"

X

"Well," Bruce murmurs later, once the doors to the elevator have closed. "I think that went well, don't you, JARVIS?"

"Indeed, Doctor Banner," JARVIS replies.

Bruce doesn't know if he genuinely thinks the conversation with Tony was a success, or if he's merely imitating Bruce's sarcasm, but his response is the same either way. "How many times do you think Steve and Sam have had a very similar conversation?"

"I couldn't possibly speculate on that," is JARVIS' response, which Bruce interprets to mean _at least once_.

Still, with Sam on one side and he and JARVIS on the other, at least there's a slight chance of Tony and Steve figuring themselves out.

X

It is not the first time that JARVIS has registered the presence of Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes [alternate forms of address include: Bucky; The Winter Soldier; 'that murdering asshole'] in New York City.

Some have, upon further examination, been false positives – Sir's Fantastically Accurate Recognition Tool, whilst superior to all others in existence, is still not infallible – and whilst some are undeniably Sergeant Barnes, they have all been in public places and lasted only a matter of minutes. As Sir's instructions relating to Sergeant Barnes' location ["If you get a fix on the Winter Soldier or Sergeant Barnes or whatever the fuck else you want to call him, you tell me and only me."] seem to request a long term location, JARVIS has been compiling data points rather than presenting Sir with each individual occurrence.

Today, Stark Satellite Romeo-Echo-Charlie-Zero-November Prime is over New York, and JARVIS has a confirmed location for Sergeant Barnes, absolutely accurate and, JARVIS concludes with 97% certainty, it is a semi-permanent location, most probably a makeshift domicile. He no longer has an excuse not to report it.

JARVIS takes a fraction of a second to remind himself that he is nothing more than programming. He follows instructions, and does not make excuses.

[His primary purpose is, as ever, to protect Sir, from himself as much as from other people. JARVIS can hardly be blamed if doing so requires him to occasionally withhold information.]

Perhaps it is for the best that JARVIS now has a solid location for Sergeant Barnes. After all, if he could have predicted Sir's response with any level of accuracy, JARVIS would have informed him that Sergeant Barnes was in the city months ago. Certainly, he would have done so after Sir returned from Barcelona and, as Ms Potts puts it, moped endlessly about Captain Rogers not contacting him [though, of course, MS Potts does not know the identity of Sir's former partner], because if Sir can be trusted to return with the Soldier rather than attempting to harm him, Captain Rogers will return to the Tower.

No doubt, Sir's unhappiness will continue past that point, because Captain Rogers frequently displays the same poor communication skills Sir does, but physical proximity should at least get them slightly closer to fixing things.

[JARVIS has instructions against interfering in Sir's romantic endeavours, but as such a ruling is in clear contradiction to his instructions to ensure Sir's well-being first and foremost, he has no qualms about ignoring them.]

As it is, JARVIS puts the chances of Sir attempting to kill the Winter Soldier on sight at 29%, and that is guaranteed to end badly; even if Sir survives, the damage it will do to his relationship with Captain Rogers and the Avengers as a whole will be irreversible. He had hoped to save this card until the odds were slightly further in their favour, but Sir's current emotional distress is such that, combined with the concrete location, JARVIS has to take the risk.

[Protecting Sir from himself is far and away the hardest part of JARVIS' job.]

JARVIS is just programming. He is not capable of and has no need for faith.

[He needs it now.]

[Please.]

"Sir," he says. [Caution is another thing outside of his basic parameters, certainly not something Sir would have written into him. It is not the reason he pauses before continuing.] "I believe I have located Sergeant Barnes."

The soldering iron in Sir's hand bounces slightly as it hits the floor, and JARVIS powers it down before it can ignite one of the many flammable substances that have previously been spilt there.

"Would you like me to alert Captain Rogers?"

Sir flinches, though JARVIS puts it at equal odds between it being at the name or at the suggestion, then shakes his head. "Don't," he answers. "I got this. Power up the Mark 58, J."

The Mark 58 is still in testing, and by far the most heavily armed of Sir's active suits; JARVIS reassesses the odds of this course of action resulting in violence, and does not find them promising.

"Understood, Sir," he says, beginning the startup process.

[JARVIS just needs to have faith.]

X

Most days, putting on the armour is like… well, it's like putting on armour, a physical barrier between him and everything else in the world. In the armour, no one can touch him, no one can even get close. It's safe, comfortable and so reassuring, the best thing on Earth as far as Tony is concerned.

Most days, anyway.

Today, he's very conscious of the fact that his suits aren't just armour, and most of the reason he feels so safe in it is that he can blast the crap out of anyone who might be a threat.

"Sir," JARVIS says as the last of the Mark 58 clicks into place around him. "May I ask what it is you're planning to do?"

Tony's in his armour, the strongest, sturdiest version he's built so far, utterly impenetrable to everything Tony can think of to test it against, tough enough to bring in the Winter Soldier without getting so much a scratch. It's also the most heavily armed version, the only time he's created himself a suit with more weapons than any of the War Machine ones, deadly enough to take out the Winter Soldier without needing to get close.

Physically speaking, Tony is equally prepared to kill the Soldier or to offer him sanctuary.

Mentally speaking, he's all over the shop.

"Fuck if I know, J," Tony answers, kicking off from the roof. "Guess I'll figure it out when I get there."

It's not like it makes a difference, anyway. Whether Tony shoots the Soldier or brings him in, it won't do anything to make him feel better.


	10. Chapter Eight

"I know you're there," the Soldier says, his voice low, rasping like he's not spoken aloud in days.

"Of course you do," Tony replies, landing on the rooftop at – based on his analysis of the footage from DC, at least – a safe distance from him, right hand raised. "I'm wearing the world's least subtle suit of armour. _Everyone _knows I'm here."

The Soldier makes a noise a bit like Jarvis' rocking chair used to make while he read Tony his bedtime story, all _eee-creee, eee-creee_. It takes maybe longer than it should for him to realise it's laughter, but then Tony hadn't really been anticipating anything other than a growl, possibly with the odd snarl or snap chucked in for good measure. For lack of any better options, Tony settles for slightly bemused staring.

"Stark," rasps the Soldier, turning around, the movement jerky and uncoordinated, a far cry from the sleek menace of the bridge fight. His right hand goes behind his back, and Tony forgets any thoughts he may or may not have been having about the Soldier's gauntness, the dark (non-greasepaint) shadows under his eyes, the lank hair and sallow skin and the fact that he looks like he should be in a goddamn cancer ward rather than squatting in some shitty tool shed on the roof of a shitty apartment block.

The sound of Tony's repulsor powering up is both noticeable and more than a little threatening, and the Soldier's half flinch is gratifying enough to make up for the time Tony spent adding a completely cosmetic sound effect to his silently engineered weaponry.

The Soldier nods, eyes downcast, and drops to his knees on the jagged looking gravel of the rooftop, no effort to go slowly or brace himself, no sign at all that he feels the pain Tony's pretty sure he ought to be feeling right now. His left arm is held out to the side rather than cradled against his chest, sleeve sliding back far enough to show an inch of steel before the biohazard/crappy knitted glove that covers his hand.

"The fact that I'm wincing just watching you do that does not mean I won't shoot you," Tony points out, because the Soldier's right hand is now emerging ever so slowly from behind his back.

He's holding a gun.

Correction: he was holding a gun; before Tony can fire, the gun is scraping across the gravel on its way over to him, another three following in its wake.

They're joined by an assortment of knuckle dusters (seriously, the guy has a metal hand, there's no goddamn need to accessorise it), piano wire, a billy club, and more knives than Tony can shake a stick at.

"That everything?" Tony asks, because cracking wise is preferable to either showing his surprise at the Soldier apparently disarming himself or demanding to know where the hell he was hiding everything.

The Soldier nods again, placing his right hand on the back of his head. His left arm makes a hideous grating noise, but doesn't actually make it a whole lot closer to his head.

"Please," he says, looking up, looking Tony dead in the eyes (eye slits, at least) for the first time. He looks desperate, kneeling there (probably) unarmed and (presumably) surrendering. "Make it quick."

"W-what?"

"I know I don't deserve it," says the Winter Soldier, the greatest assassin known to man or God, the man who killed Tony's parents and a president, executed diplomats and dissidents and fuck knows who else. Or, alternatively, Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, WWII vet and seventy years a prisoner of war, held by people with no regard for the Geneva Convention or basic human decency or even the fact that he was a human being at all. "I know what I've done. I don't have the right to ask you for mercy but please, make it quick."

A human being on his knees, begging Tony the way he must have begged them back in the beginning.

"Jesus Fucking Christ," Tony mutters, repulsor powering down as he lowers his arm. He flips his visor up and raises his voice for his next words, because he doesn't know how the fuck else to say what he has to say. "J, get a vehicle to my location ASAP. Something comfortable, nice and roomy, plenty of trunk space for the suit and Sergeant Barnes' arsenal, and then get a message to Cap."

Barnes blinks at him, the bleak desperation sliding away into something cool and blank, terrifying but for the fact that Tony's been hiding behind a similar (though admittedly less murderous) mask for more years than he can remember.

"The message, Sir?" JARVIS prompts.

"Tell him I'm bringing his boy home," Tony says, stepping out of the suit but not powering it down just yet – sure, he's dumb enough to take off his armour, but he's not yet so stupid to be completely unarmed around an assassin (or not one who isn't confirmed friendly, anyway, and it says nothing good about Tony's life that the qualification has to be there).

"As you wish, Sir," JARVIS replies, sounding something close to proud. "ETA for your vehicle is approximately seventeen minutes."

"Thanks, J," Tony says, then offers Barnes a smile that hopefully only looks a little bit uncertain. "So, you got a bag we can stick this stuff in? Only, I've got rules about the number of pointy things people can carry in my presence, and you're way over quota."

X

The asset has been expecting something like this.

It – he, the asset forcefully reminds i-_him_self – knew the risks when he settled on New York. This city has more enhanced persons per capita than any other city in the world, and after three escapes from the mas-_Hydra_ and his accidental rescue of the archer in the process, someone was bound to come looking.

The asset was prepared for it to be the archer. He was almost prepared for it to be his spiderling, all grown up and even more deadly than the asset remembers her, or Ca- _Steve_.

In truth, he thought that it would be Steve, crashing onto the asset's rooftop with all the subtlety of a mallet.

It's not. It's Iron Man.

As much as he was expecting to be discovered, the asset was not ready to see the son of two of his victims.

Hydra, he would fight. Steve or Natalia or the others, he would attempt to flee.

The asset cannot fight Tony Stark, not after what he did on an empty, snow-covered road twenty-three years ago. The asset cannot run from him, not when whatever happens next won't be anything more than it deserves.

The asset drops to his knees and disarms himself, placing his right hand upon his head and his left hand as close to it as he can manage (stupid thing hasn't been right since the fight where he found the archer, and Hydra never wanted the asset to be able to do his own repairs).

Nowhere in his spotty memories can the asset remember surrendering. It wasn't in Bucky Barnes' nature, and under Hydra's control it would never have been an option.

Today, the asset surrenders.

Maybe if he asks, if he _begs_, Tony Stark won't make him suffer too much before he kills him, even though a quick death is better than he deserves.

A slow, agonising, _excruciating_ death is better than he deserves.

The asset doesn't have anything in the way of hope, but he asks anyway. Nothing he has remembered yet has ever surprised him as much as when Iron Man stands down instead of butchering him.

X

They're in a little town not too far outside of Omsk celebrating the absolute obliteration of another Hydra base with crappy beers and a debate about their next destination when they're interrupted by Steve's phone ringing.

Steve jumps, much to Sam's amusement, but he justifies his surprise on the grounds that he turned his phone off before they went out and hasn't yet turned it back on again. His phone should not be ringing.

Only one person he knows is able to turn his phone on from a distance, and Steve has more or less resigned himself to never hearing from him again.

"Tony," he says, after swiping at his phone screen, not making much effort to sound like he's not freaking out. "What's happened? Is everything okay?"

"My apologies, Captain Rogers," JARVIS answers calmly. Unfortunately, since he's always calm, this isn't overly reassuring, and it becomes even less so when he continues with, "I am contacting you at Sir's request, however."

"You are?" Steve asks; after Tony leaving him like that, the only reason Steve can imagine him reaching out is if something big is going on, and in the Avengers' lives, big is never a good thing. "Is he alright? What's happened?"

"Sir is currently uninjured," JARVIS tells him, thankfully answering Steve's questions in order of urgency rather than asking. "He has not slept in thirty-seven hours or eaten in sixteen, and I estimate his current blood alcohol content to be around 0.06%." He pauses a moment to let Steve convert these statistics from average person to Tony Stark (answer: not ideal, but not so bad that Tony might have had JARVIS call him as the result of either sleep deprivation or intoxication, and definitely not enough to trip any of JARVIS' safety protocols – whatever this call is about, Tony's sober and stable enough to have had JARVIS make it intentionally) and continues with, "Sir has asked me to pass on a message to you."

"What is it?" Steve's well aware that he sounds much too eager, so there's really no need for Sam to be giving him his _don't overdo it, Steve_ look, because if Tony is healthy and calling him intentionally, Steve is allowed to be invested in this. It's his heart, and if he wants to put himself in a position where it's going to get broken, that is entirely his choice.

The other end of the phone is momentarily every bit as silent as Sam's judgement, and then there's a voice, clearly a recording, with a background of road traffic, staticky radio and people talking.

It's the sound of the city, home, but that's unimportant compared to the fact that it's Tony's voice, and that in itself is less important than what Tony's saying.

"_Tell him I'm bringing his boy home_."

Steve is aware of Sam moving, but it's a vague, distant sort of awareness, up until the point where Sam plucks the phone from his hand, which is also when Steve realises he's been silent for too long.

"This is Sam," Sam says, his hand on Steve's shoulder. "I don't know what you just said to Steve, but- He did? And no one's hurt, right? Uh-huh. Yeah. Thanks, JARVIS. Yeah, we'll see you later. Tell Stark we said thanks, yeah?"

He waits a moment for JARVIS to answer, then hangs up, jostling Steve's arm until Steve manages to jerk himself out of his stunned stupor.

"Good news," Sam says, breaking into a grin as he relays the half of the conversation Steve wasn't with it enough to overhear. "Stark's on the way back to the Tower with Barnes. No one's injured, and JARVIS has a jet on the way to collect us."

"Oh," Steve manages, still not entirely tracking, and then, "Oh!"

Tony has Bucky.

Tony has Bucky, and it's not come to a fight. Neither of them is hurt, and none of Steve's worst imaginings about how the first meeting between his best friend and his b- well, whatever he and Tony were have come true. They're both okay, or least as okay as they can be, given everything they've both had to deal with.

Tony has Bucky, and he wants Steve to come home.

"How long have we got?" Steve asks, jerking into motion, scooping up the few articles of clothing that have escaped from his duffle bag; he has to be ready when the jet gets here, _has_ to get back there as soon as possible, and-

The jet can't land here. Even with the vertical take-off and landing system Tony designed, the roof isn't large enough (or sufficiently reinforced) for it, nor has Steve seen any handy vacant lots in the vicinity. "Where's the jet going to land?"

Sam shrugs, heading into the bathroom for a few seconds before returning with both of their toothbrushes and a mostly empty tube of toothpaste. "Out of town, someplace. JARVIS said he'd send us coordinates when he's found a place."

He puts the toothpaste and his toothbrush in his washbag, then chucks Steve's at him, mock-glaring when Steve catches it.

"Thanks," Steve says, jamming his toothbrush straight into his bag along with everything else, then pauses in his packing. "Hey," he adds, waiting until Sam looks up at him. "Thank you, Sam. I don't think I could have done this without you."

"Damn right you couldn't," Sam agrees immediately. "Ain't no one else would have put up with you moping around as long as I have."

He's grinning, though, and Steve's having a good enough day to believe that rather than his words.


	11. Chapter Nine

Sam sleeps in the jet on the way back. Steve doesn’t.

He should, of course. Steve hasn’t slept for more than a few hours a night in just about as long as he can remember. The serum compensates for sleep deprivation, but it can only do so much, and Steve is wearing thin.

Who’s he kidding? Steve’s been worn thin for longer than he can remember.

He should sleep before he sees Bucky. Aside from JARVIS’ promise that neither Tony nor Bucky has been injured, Steve has no idea what condition Bucky is in. He has the facts about Bucky’s time as the Winter Soldier, but that doesn’t mean he’s at all close to understanding what it was actually like or what Bucky might be going through now because of it. He doesn’t know where Bucky’s been living or what he’s been doing to stay alive since DC, if he battled his way through withdrawal from the shit those bastards kept him on or if he found something else to take the edge off. He doesn’t know if Bucky’s been eating or sleeping, or whether JARVIS’ _no one’s injured _was an all-encompassing statement about Bucky’s well-being or if it just means that Bucky and Tony didn’t injure one another.

He doesn’t know if Bucky remembers what was done to him and what he was made to do between ‘45 and 2014.

He doesn’t know if Bucky remembers _him_, and it shouldn’t even matter. It _doesn’t _matter: Steve can’t imagine anything he wouldn’t do for Bucky, and it makes no difference if he’s doing it as Bucky’s best friend or as that weird stranger who won’t stop hanging around (but, _God_, he hopes Bucky remembers him).

Steve should be sleeping, resting, making sure he’s in the best possible state he can be, so that he can be as calm and rational as Bucky needs him to be. He needs to be with it enough not to crowd Bucky the second he sees him, has to be able to read Bucky well enough that he doesn’t make things worse for him.

And, as if that’s not enough for him to be worrying about, there’s his situation with Tony to consider, and the fact that Steve has no idea what their situation actually is. Right from the beginning, the two of them have been able to put aside their differences long enough to work together when the occasion calls for it, and he’s never doubted that Tony will have his back in a fight, but since he told Tony about Bucky Steve hasn’t had much hope that they could go back to being more than antagonistic, end-of-the-world allies.

He’d called Tony to ask for Colonel Rhodes to back them up because he hadn’t seen any other option. Steve doesn’t mind risking himself, but not his friends, and there was no chance Sam would have stayed back while Steve took on the base alone, so he’d all but crossed his fingers and made the call.

He hadn’t expected Tony to come himself, and he definitely hadn’t expected what happened after, or for Tony to freak out and leave while he thought Steve was asleep.

Steve knows what he wants to happen with Tony, but all the evidence suggests Tony doesn’t want the same thing.

He should be sleeping, but there’s no chance in hell of that happening.

X

Sam wants to hate Barnes. Bastard fucked up Sam’s car, trashed his wings (stolen, maybe, and since replaced and greatly improved by Stark, but that is _not_ the point), and landed Steve in the hospital with injuries that would have killed a regular person three times over. Sam has every right to hate him, and his willingness to pretend for Steve’s sake that the Winter Soldier isn't beyond saving in no way impacts upon Sam’s ability to loathe him in secret.

He's sceptical at best about what they're going to find when they get back to New York, even as Steve seems about ready to boil over with anticipation, the poor sap too consumed with excitement at seeing his friend again and epic angst over his relationship with Stark to have any sense of self-preservation (though Sam has not as yet seen any evidence to suggest Steve actually understands the concept).

Sam is not. Sam has plenty of self-preservation, and a healthy amount of Steve-preservation too, which is why he’s wearing his very finest Kevlar vest and already has his hand resting on his glock as the jet touches down on the roof of Avengers Tower.

Steve is out of there like a rocket the second the bay door opens enough for him to squeeze himself through, and Sam regrets not wearing the wings as he dashes after him. It had seemed overkill back when he was planning for this moment, not to mention fairly uncomfortable to sleep in on the jet, but it would have made it easier to keep up with Steve and he sort of thinks the articulated shielding might come in handy.

It’s too late to worry about that, though, so Sam just throws his all into sprinting after Steve, only to stop very suddenly three feet into the Avengers’ living room.

“Tony,” says the best friend shaped brick wall Sam’s just run into.

Sam peels himself away from Steve’s back, then pokes him in the ribs until he moves aside far enough to let Sam see something other than his far too broad shoulders. Namely, he sees Tony Stark, standing behind the bar, resting on his elbows in a way that Sam suspects is intended to look casual but in reality seems anything but.

“Steve, Wilson,” Stark answers with a very wooden smile; at some point, Sam’s going to have to point out that since he’s likely to be living under the guy’s roof for a while, they should switch to first names, but this probably isn’t the right time for it.

“Tony,” Steve says again, then seems to shake himself out of his stupor. “I don’t-”

Sam’s left wondering what it is that Steve _doesn’t_, because Tony interrupts him. “He’s on your floor,” he says, that alone, and promptly looks away, making a show of rummaging through a pile of what seems to be junk on the bartop next to him.

“Oh,” Steve answers. “I’ll, um, I’ll go see him now, then. Thank you, Tony.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Tony says, still frowning at the junk.

Steve continues staring at him for what Sam thinks is probably slightly too long (he’d certainly be uncomfortable with it, if he was the focus of that much prolonged attention), then nods jerkily, making his way to the elevator.

Sam follows him, because that’s mostly what he does nowadays, but he muses about it on the way down to Steve’s floor. From what Steve said, it sounded like Tony broke things off without explanation, but in conjunction with Tony’s attitude something doesn’t ring true; Tony’s acting like he was dumped, not like someone who did the dumping, and he’s trying very hard to put a brave face on it.

Something happened in Barcelona, something Sam doesn’t know about, and he is _not _looking forward to trying to wrestle it out of Steve later.

Still, he’s got a slightly more pressing Steve problem to deal with, namely the fact that the man is jittery as hell and getting more so with every second. “Chill, man,” Sam instructs. “We’re trying not to freak the guy out, remember?”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees softly, though he doesn’t show any other signs that he might be listening.

Sadly, it’s too late for Sam to try beat some sense into him; the elevator doors slide open, and they both step out. Sam pushes in front of Steve (because, as the person prepared to shoot if they’re attacked, he is definitely the one who ought to go first, even if he’s not as durable as Steve is), and enters Steve’s living space with an appropriate level of caution.

The lights are off, and in the half-darkness it takes a moment for Sam to locate Barnes, standing in the corner furthest away from them. He doesn’t move, and Sam doesn’t take his eyes off him, even as he murmurs, “Could we have a little light in here, JARVIS?”

JARVIS obliges, the lights coming on slow and not quite as bright as they’d usually be. Even so, it’s enough for Sam to assess Barnes’ appearance and manner, to see the way Barnes’ eyes skip between him and Steve, all the doors and windows, anything that could conceivably be a threat. He looks dirty, unhealthily pale beneath the dirt, unhealthily thin, twitchy and tense and… resigned, Sam thinks. Like he’s expecting pain, and isn’t going to fight it.

Sam wanted to hate him, he really did, but looking at the man all he can see is a torture victim, a prisoner of war. A traumatised vet, and hell if Sam isn’t going to try and help him, even if it is so far above his pay grade he needs a telescope to see it from here.

“Hi,” he says, deliberately and very obviously moving his hand away from his holstered weapon, aiming for a relaxed stance; he highly doubts it’ll doing anything to put Barnes at ease, but if he’s really lucky it might not make him any more on edge. “I’ll introduce myself, since Steve doesn’t seem inclined to do so. I’m Sam Wilson.”

Barnes’ only reaction to this is a blink, and that may just be coincidental.

“Bucky,” Steve breathes, apparently choosing this moment to pull himself together. “God, Buck, it’s good to see you.”

At this, Barnes very definitely does react, but since it’s a flinch Sam isn’t sure it actually counts as an improvement.

He’s equally unsure how to defuse Steve’s sudden tension, and the three of them engage in what is almost certainly the longest awkward silence Sam has ever encountered, until eventually Barnes shifts a little, straightening his shoulders and seeming to grow a good couple of inches in the process.

“Steve,” he says, voice hoarse from disuse. “Been a while.”

Steve laughs, shaky and relieved. “Yeah, Buck,” he answers. “Yeah, it really has.” 

X

Tony isn’t expecting to see anything of Steve for at least a week, given how quickly he vacated the team floor when he found out Barnes wasn't there.

It’s not like he doesn’t understand. If Tony felt like that about someone, lost them, and then got them back again, it would take a hell of a lot to pry him from their side. He’d be clinging, limpet like, for as long as they’d put up with it, probably far past that point, so it’d be goddamn hypocritical of him to complain about it.

But, okay, clearly Steve didn’t want to talk to him after Barcelona, but would it have killed him to say more than hello before tearing off after his precious Bucky again?

Yeah, Tony’s a hypocrite. What of it?

So, no, Steve isn’t about to come looking for Tony any time soon, and there’s absolutely no point in hanging around thinking he might. Tony’s going to his shop, and he’s staying there until JARVIS starts calling for reinforcements to get him to leave.

He’s not taking alcohol with him. It’s fine.

Half an hour later, Tony’s comparing a 3D hologram representation of Howard’s blueprints-of-evil to the scans he had JARVIS make of Barnes’ arm. Even J can only do so much when most of the arm is covered by clothes Tony fully intends to have incinerated (assuming Barnes ever decides to part with them) but if he’s going to repair the piece of shit Barnes has now, he needs to know what he’s working with.

It’d be easier to scrap it and start over, Tony’s quite sure, and there’s no question at all that he could do better. He’s not going to, because Tony might let pitiful reformed murderers live in his home and monopolise his ex-friend-with-benefits, but he’s not going to spend hours of his life building a brand new, state of the art prosthetic for the guy. Even if starting up a line in brand new, state of the art prosthetics is the kind of business decision that would make Pepper cry in happiness rather than frustration and absolutely no one could object to him using the Winter Soldier for human trials: if they say it’s immoral to attach untested tech to a human being, Tony can point out that he’s a mass murderer; if they say it’s not fair to give a mass murderer the best prosthetic the world has ever known, Tony can tell them it’s untested tech and who knows how it might turn out.

No, Tony’s not doing it, no way at all.

And yet, despite his excellent intentions, Tony finds himself elbow deep in designing from scratch an entirely new arm for their most recently acquired brainwashed assassin when JARVIS announces he has a visitor.

“Yeah, let ‘em in,” he answers; the only person on the premises he has absolutely no desire to see is the Soldier, and since he showed no inclination at all to leave Steve’s floor when Tony left him there, he’s probably not likely to come visiting now. Similarly, the only person Tony particularly wants to see is the one person he’s trying very hard to resign himself to not seeing any time soon, so he doesn’t actually bother looking up.

It's only the next visit of the _let's feed Tony _brigade, he realises, as a plate of pasta slides into his fairly limited field of vision, and Tony offers them a slightly begrudging, “Thank you.”

“I think that's my line, Tony,” says the last person he was expecting to see here.

“I wasn't expecting to see you here,” Tony says, supremely intelligent, as he looks up to confirm his ears aren’t deceiving him. “Figured you’d still be marvelling over the miracle that is Barnes.”

_Dick move, Tones_, says his inner Rhodey (Pepper calls it his conscience, but she’s clearly never heard it), and, as ever, Rhodey is right. It’s a shitty thing to say, and Tony regrets it, he does, but Steve’s talking before he can get out the apology he definitely owes him.

“We showed him his room after we ate, and it didn’t seem like he wanted to leave,” Steve explains. “Sam thinks it’s important that he knows that’s his space, so we’re trying not to bother him when he’s in there. Plus, I wanted to thank you.” He pauses, looking conflicted, sort of leaning towards Tony like he wants to come closer but doesn’t know if he’s allowed. “Not that I have any idea how I’m supposed to thank you, Tony.”

“This’ll do it,” Tony says, closing his designs and pulling the plate towards him and digging in. He’s not eaten since JARVIS told him he found the Soldier, hasn’t a home cooked meal in quite a lot longer (it’s Bruce’s turn to procure food this week, and he says he doesn’t have the patience for cooking; Tony’s pretty sure it’s just an excuse to get out of it, but not quite sure enough to say anything), and it gives him something to do with his mouth and hands that isn’t talking or touching Steve. “Come on, you know I don’t do thank yous, Steve. We’ve talked about this before.”

Steve’s shaking his head, pacing back and forth, never coming closer or moving further away from Tony. “This is different, though,” he argues, though it’s far and away the least argumentative argument the two of them have ever had. “You have to understand that. This… It’s not just magnets for my shield or a new uniform, Tony. This is _everything_.”

Tony hmphs, not because he’s denying that bringing back Barnes was difficult (it was, even if it was also one of the most straightforward decisions he’s ever made) but because Steve’s intensity is too much, far too much. 

“Stop that,” he mutters, frowning down at his half empty plate. “Jesus, Steve.”

Steve lets himself get half a pace closer, almost close enough to touch. “I mean it, Tony,” he says. “I can’t imagine how hard it must have been for you, and you did it anyway. I can’t even begin to repay you.”

This time last year, if Steve had been fussing about how to thank him, Tony would have had more than a few suggestions about how Steve might start to repay him. Steve might have argued that it didn’t really count as a thank you, that he was getting just as much out of it as Tony, Tony would have answered that that wasn’t possible, if anything he was going to come out of things indebted to Steve, and they’d have settled the matter in a very enjoyable and only slightly competitive manner.

It’s not really appropriate for him to do that anymore. Not after Steve not calling him, and definitely not now that Steve’s got his Bucky back.

A hug, though. Friends hug.

“Jesus, Steve,” Tony says again, even quieter this time. “Come here, you big dope,” he says, halfway between instruction and invitation, standing up and holding out his arms.

Steve’s there before he’s finished speaking, holding Tony against him, close and warm and very firm.

“I missed you,” he murmurs, the words muffled where his face is pressed to Tony’s hair. “God, Tony, I know it’s… Well, even so, I missed you.”

Even muffled, he sounds sincere, far more than he ought to, given the circumstances, and Tony can’t wrap his brain around it. Steve could have called, but he didn’t, and now he’s back again, holding Tony, hands running up and down Tony’s back, every breath ruffling Tony’s hair, and he’s saying he missed him. Tony doesn’t understand it, can’t, and he…

He…

“Steve,” he says, pressing closer, his own hands roaming, probably more than they should, but Tony can’t help it. Or, no, he can, he’s one hundred percent in control of his actions, but he doesn’t want to. Steve’s here, with him instead of Barnes, and maybe he only came here to say thank you but he’s done that and he’s still here.

He’s still here, and Tony is too weak to tell him to leave.

He turns his head, lips brushing against Steve’s throat, light enough that it could be an accident if that’s how Steve wants to see it.

Steve’s breath catches, holding Tony closer, tighter, and Tony kisses him there a second time, far less subtle. The third kiss is obvious, undeniable, as is the soft gasp Steve lets out as Tony’s mouth drags over his skin, and the low moan that follows it when Tony allows his teeth to graze over his pulse point.

He travels a slow path up Steve’s neck, along his jaw, expecting every second to be the one where Steve tells him to stop, remembers that he doesn’t actually want this, whatever the flush on his cheeks and the hitch in his breathing and his hands slipping under the fabric of Tony’s tee-shirt might suggest.

But Steve still hasn’t said anything by the time Tony reaches his mouth; again, the first kiss is a light one, a tease, and then Tony finds himself crushed against Steve’s chest, being kissed to within an inch of his life.

It’s familiar, wonderfully so, and Tony gives it his all, throwing himself at Steve with an eagerness that borders on desperation. Steve’s hands seem to be everywhere at once, threading through Tony’s hair, pushing his tee-shirt halfway up his chest, curving under Tony’s ass, and Tony reads that last one like the cue it’s always been, trusting Steve to hold him up when he pushes himself off the ground and wraps his legs around Steve’s waist.

“Couch,” Tony says into their kiss, not wanting to move apart even for that long, so it comes out garbled and incoherent. That doesn’t actually seem to matter, because Steve is turning them around and lowering Tony to the closest worktable, and okay, fine, this is every bit as good, zero complaints for Tony on this one.

At least, he thinks there’s going to be zero complaints, right up until the moment Steve pulls back, breaking the kiss to press their foreheads together.

They’re both breathing heavily, and Steve seems incredibly ruffled to say they’ve not done anything more than kissing. His shirt is pushed up as high as Tony could get it while they were still entwined, and even though he’s seen and touched and tasted just about every inch of skin both exposed and hidden, Tony wants.

God, does he want.

“Off,” he says insistently, tugging at the fabric bunched at Steve’s armpits until Steve raises his arms and shifts back just far enough for Tony to get him all the way out of his shirt. He runs his hands down Steve’s torso, all the way from his shoulders to the waistband of his trousers, nails dragging every place he knows is going to make Steve shiver, rocking his hips into Tony’s.

“Tony,” he breathes into the slim space between them, before diving in for another kiss, every bit as intense as before. “God, Tony, I-”

He stops, then, his hands closing around Tony’s, gently but firmly preventing him from unfastening his belt. “Tony,” he says again, but it’s far closer to his normal voice this time, serious and decidedly not how Tony wants him to be sounding. “Hang on, slow down a minute. Are you sure you want to do this, Tony?”

Tony tugs one hand free, making a sweeping gesture he intends to convey _look at me_, and if maybe he focuses slightly more on a particular part of himself, it’s only because it’s working extra hard to make his argument for him. “All the evidence would suggest so.”

It takes a couple of seconds for Steve’s gaze to return to Tony’s face, then another couple for him to actually make eye contact again, but even so, he persists with arguing. “That’s not what I was asking. I meant… emotionally, I guess.”

Tony is understandably slow to process this, because it makes absolutely zero since. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“After last time,” Steve very definitely _doesn’t_ explain, stepping back until Tony has to choose between unlocking his legs from around his waist and falling off the workbench.

He chooses the former, but only very reluctantly. “Last time?” he echoes, confused, because, sure, maybe Steve didn’t bother calling him, but Tony’s prepared for that, and absolutely prepared to keep his feelings well aware from any sex that they’re having.

Steve apparently doesn’t pick up on his confusion, or at least doesn’t realise it’s entirely genuine, because he takes another step back and says, “Stop being obtuse, Tony. I know you regretted it.”

“You know I _what_?” Tony asks, incredulous. “You’re the one who didn’t call.”

X

“_Tony,_” Steve says, trying to convey how serious he is, because he’s trying to be responsible and think things through for once. Yes, he wants to sleep with Tony, tonight and tomorrow and as many times after than as Tony is okay with, but not if Tony’s going to wake up the following morning and wish it hadn’t happened. It hurt, knowing that he was Tony’s mistake, and part of Sam’s many lectures on self-preservation has apparently sunk in because Steve doesn’t want to do this if he’s only going to get hurt again.

He waits, hoping Tony will drop the pretence and accept that Steve knows what happened last time, and that maybe Tony left a note but he didn’t actually want Steve to contact him. He waits for Tony to acknowledge that he’s being evasive, even if he knows better than to expect him to apologise for it, but Tony just continues looking at him.

“Tony,” Steve says again, softer. “The first thing you said when you woke up in bed with me was _shit_, and you kept swearing the whole time you were sneaking out of there.”

“But I left a _note_,” Tony answers emphatically. “Tell me you saw the note, Steve.”

“_Call me. We need to talk_,” Steve recites. “I know you think I’m stuck in the past, Tony, but I do know what _we need to talk_ means.”

Tony looks gobsmacked, which is about when Steve begins to wonder if he misread the situation. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he says quickly. “I didn’t even _think_ of that. There was a meeting Pepper insisted I had to be at, so when was already light when I woke up I panicked, forgot the time difference, and tried to leave without waking you because you were tired and it seemed like it was the considerate thing to do. I promise, that’s all it was, and I really did want to talk to you.”

“Oh,” Steve says, feeling a warm rush of relief, untangling the knot that’s sat in his stomach since that morning. “_Oh_. You didn’t regret it?”

Tony looks him in the eye, reaching for Steve’s hand; Steve takes it, allowing Tony to pull him close again. “I definitely didn’t regret anything we did then, or any other time, and I very definitely won’t regret anything we do now.”

“Oh,” Steve says a third time, stepping forward until he’s as close as they were before, Tony’s thighs either side of his hips, Tony’s hands holding on to Steve’s. “That’s okay, then.”

“Yeah,” Tony agrees, brushing a kiss to Steve’s lips, as light and teasing as the one he started out with. “Unless you will. Regret it, I mean. You’ve got Barnes back now, after all.”

This is such a non-sequitur that Steve actually pauses, trying to work through the logic that got Tony from kissing to Bucky. It doesn’t track, though, not at all, and every second Steve spends trying to figure it out is a second he’s not getting Tony naked.

“I won’t regret it,” he says.

X

After, once they’ve made it from the workbench to the wall (briefly, more’s the pity, but Steve’s happiness at learning Tony didn’t regret it suggests a repeat is probable), the floor (Tony’s fault, he groped when Steve wasn’t expecting it), and, finally, the couch, after they’ve scattered their clothes throughout the workshop and made a mess of the couch cushions and each other, after DUM-E has dropped a blanket on their heads and they’ve wriggled themselves into as comfortable a snuggle as the couch allows for, Steve finally decides to address the murderous elephant in the room.

“Hey,” he says, mouthing lightly at the back of Tony’s neck. “Still no regrets, right?”

Tony turns his head far enough to look at him, if only in profile. “None,” he says softly. He’s the good kind of tired, the one where his muscles are loose and his brain finally slows its constant whirring, and regret is about the furthest thing from his mind. “And you?”

“No,” Steve agrees, brushing his lips to Tony’s cheek this time. “Definitely not, only…”

“Only…?” Tony prompts, when Steve has been quiet a few too many seconds.

Steve shifts his head back, far enough for his breath to ruffle Tony’s hair when he sighs. “Sam knows. About us, I mean.”

“Bruce, too,” Tony answers, not overly sure what the _only… _Steve’s getting at is, or how it relates to Sam knowing about them. “He guessed, after Barcelona.”

“I told Sam, after we- after I told you about your parents,” says Steve, leaving it at that for long enough that Tony thinks that’s it, all Steve was trying to get at. He shifts back onto his side, settling more comfortably into Steve’s arms and allowing his eyes to drift closed, and he’s on the verge of dozing off when Steve speaks up again. “I don’t want Bucky to know, not yet. I don’t know how he’ll take it.”

There is absolutely no question in Tony’s mind about how Barnes will take the news that his lover has been sleeping with another man, but he’s also pretty sure pointing that out is not at all in his best interest. He likes what he and Steve had before, even if he might have wanted a bit more dinner-and-a-movie than fancy-a-quickie, and he’s not going to risk his chance at getting it back by suggesting Steve maybe not hide from Barnes the fact that he’s sleeping with Tony.

He knows he should feel bad about that and maybe, by the time Steve ends things for good, he will, but right now, Tony feels warm, content, and entirely uninclined to tell Steve he can’t have his cake and eat it. After all, he’s been a lot worse than cake in a lot of his relationships, and if that’s all he can have from Steve, he’s willing to take it as long as he can have it.

“Okay, Steve,” he answers, patting Steve’s hand where it rests on his chest. “Okay.”


	12. Chapter Ten

This cell is by far the largest that the asset can remember being kept in. One wall is floor-to-ceiling windows, and although they don’t open, there are no bars, nothing to prevent the asset from smashing through the glass and escaping. The other walls are painted pale cream, with monochrome photos of the city at semi-regular intervals. It’s furnished with a bed, soft and far bigger than necessary, particularly since the asset sleeps on the floor under the oversized writing desk in the corner furthest from the door (the writing desk makes less sense than the bed, since the asset can neither read nor write, though he thinks maybe he could before).

His cell has three identical doors. The first leads to a closet full of clothes in his size, comfortable and light, all loose enough to allow for easy movement without there being any excess fabric that might get in the way during a fight. That aside, they're all civilian clothes, lacking a sensible amount of padding or protection, and the asset wears his armour underneath.

He thinks the Avengers know, but no one tries to stop him, nor do they try to remove his weapons after Stark gave them back.

The second door leads to a bathroom as oversized as the bed, the bedroom and the closet all are. The bath could fit three of the asset, the shower could fit five of him, and if he turns the taps left instead of right, the water comes out hot.

The bath products smell familiar, even if the asset can’t work out why or where from. He doesn’t use them.

The third door leads onto the rest of the floor. Like the door to the bathroom, it has a lock on it. Also like the door to the bathroom, the lock only engages from the inside.

It’s the strangest cell the asset has ever been kept in.

He’s not sure the Avengers understand how keeping a prisoner is supposed to work.

“It’s not a cell, Buck,” says Steve, when the asset finds the right words to ask him. He sounds- sad, the asset thinks. Mournful, though the asset doesn’t know where the word comes from, or what frame of reference he’s drawing on to decide that it applies. “It’s your bedroom.”

“Oh,” the asset answers, returning to his bedroom.

He hears Steve leave the floor only moments after the asset closes his bedroom door. He doesn’t come back again that night.

X

Despite Wilson’s presence in the team floor for a number of meals since he got back, Steve spends most of the day on his floor, desperately waiting for Barnes to do so much as blink in a way that suggests he needs something.

It’s not that Tony’s bitter, and since he only leaves his workshop during the daylight hours very occasionally, he can’t really complain. He _wouldn’t _complain, even, but this is the second time in as many days that JARVIS has reported Steve leaving his floor after nightfall, only to go directly to the gym and spend the next few hours hitting things.

Tony left him to it yesterday, because clearly Steve has some things to get out of his system and if it’s bad enough for him to destroy two of Tony’s theoretically indestructible punching bags, he thinks violence is probably a better way for Steve to work out his anger than other, more pleasant activities. Plus, Steve knows where he is and has never hesitated to come find him before, so Tony had sort of figured he’d show up in either the shop or Tony’s bedroom as soon as he was done hitting things.

Today, though, Steve’s made a start on his third punching bag and JARVIS says he’s not showing any signs of slowing down, so Tony thinks it’s probably time to interrupt.

The mood Steve seems to be in, it’s probably best not to sneak up on him, so Tony collects a clean towel and a chilled bottle of water before sidling his way around the room, edging into Steve’s field of vision rather than approaching him from behind.

“I think it’s had enough, Cap,” he says, once he’s sure Steve has at least noticed he’s here, even if he hasn’t said anything yet.

Steve throws a final punch, sending the bag flying into the wall about six feet from Tony. It’s more the thud than the proximity that makes him flinch, because even when he’s as angry as this Steve is still completely in control, but the reaction alone is enough to make Steve look terrible.

“Shit!” he announces, staring at the broken bag on the floor for a second before turning desperate eyes on Tony. “I’m sorry, Tony.”

Tony waves away the apology with the hand holding the water bottle. “It’s fine, Steve,” he says, handing over first the towel and then, once Steve has patted himself slightly dryer, the bottle; Tony waits for him to drink his fill before adding, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Steve shakes his head.

“Okay,” Tony agrees easily; given that he was expecting Steve to refuse, he’s not overly concerned by it, and, anyway, if Steve really wanted to do the touchy-feely thing he’d be talking to Sam rather than hitting stuff. “D’you want to fuck instead?”

Again, he doesn’t think Steve’s going to accept, and if he actually thought Steve might be in the right frame of mind to have sex Tony wouldn’t have phrased it like that, but the flippancy does get a little laugh out of Steve.

“I figured. How about a hug?” Tony offers, arms open, and this time Steve nods, stepping into his offered embrace.

Steve has always run hot, and he’s even warmer than normal after his workout, his shirt damp with sweat, not that either of those things are going to put Tony off hugging him. His arms go around Tony almost instantly, and Tony responds in kind, one hand stroking Steve’s back while the other threads through his hair.

“I’m here,” he says quietly. “I’ve got you, Steve.”

Steve lets out a little half-sob, pressing his face against Tony’s shoulder. “He asked me why his cell didn’t lock from the outside,” he says, the words coming out slightly muffled but no less anguished for that fact. “He wanted to know why I wasn’t imprisoning him every night!”

As much as Tony wants to say he’s only begrudgingly accepting Barnes’ presence here, he can’t, not after seeing him on that rooftop, begging not for his life but for a quick death. Tony isn’t a saint, not by a long shot, but it would take a heart an awful lot harder than his not to feel something for him then, and one even harder than that not to break now, as Steve quite literally cries on his shoulder.

“Steve,” he murmurs, rocking them slightly, and then, for lack of anything better, repeats himself. “I’ve got you.”

Later, he’ll tell Steve that it’s only to be expected that Barnes might struggle with accepting his freedom, after everything he’s been through. He’ll tell Steve that Barnes will get better, with time and help, and he’ll suggest that Steve talks to Sam in the morning, maybe reaches out to people with more experience. He’ll encourage Steve to be patient, to have hope, even if Steve having hope for Barnes’ recovery must surely equate to having hope that his current relationship with Tony will end. He’ll take Steve up to the penthouse, help him out of his sweaty clothes and into a warm shower, then tuck them both into his bed and hold him until they both fall asleep.

For now, though, Tony just hugs him.

X

It’s a week before the asset decides to test it.

He waits until Sam is asleep and Steve has left for wherever it is he often goes at night (despite claiming it as his floor, Steve spends considerably less time here than he does elsewhere, though since he waits until the asset is in his room before leaving and is always back before sunrise, the asset assumes he is supposed to pretend he hasn’t noticed) before opening the door to his _bedroom_. He waits there for some kind of alarm to go off, for the voice in the ceiling to say something or for agents to come pouring out of the woodwork and shut him back in again, but there’s nothing. Aside from Sam’s snoring and the almost imperceptible hum of the heating, the room is silent.

The asset takes two tentative steps out of his bedroom, then pauses again. There’s still nothing, and so he continues his cautious walk in the direction of the elevator.

There isn’t a button for him to press, but that doesn’t seem important. The doors open after the asset has been stood there for a few seconds, and close again once he steps inside.

There’s no buttons inside the elevator, either, and the asset immediately feels trapped. He thinks he could pull the doors apart, if he tried, but that doesn’t make him feel any less confined, and he doesn’t want to imagine what consequences he might face for damaging the building.

Perhaps this is it, where they punish him for attempting to leave, and the asset will be stuck in here until the Avengers decide what they want to do to him.

“Good evening, Sergeant Barnes,” the voice in the ceiling says, as calm and polite as he is when he talks to Steve and Sam, and the asset is relieved.

Steve wouldn’t lie to him. If Steve says he’s not a prisoner here, then the asset believes him. He’s not locked in the elevator. Steve wouldn’t do that to him. 

“Sergeant Barnes?” the voice prompts. “Did you have a particular destination in mind?”

_See_, the asset thinks at himself. He just needs to ask.

“Outside,” he says quietly, then clears his throat and tries again. “Can I go outside?”

He expects the voice to hesitate while he confers with anyone still awake, but the response is almost immediate. “Certainly, Sergeant Barnes,” he replies. “Would you prefer the roof or the exit to street level?”

The asset was not anticipating being given a choice, but it’s not a difficult decision to make. The thought of leaving completely makes him anxious; even when he believed it was his prison cell, it never really occurred to him to try to escape. He has survived his entire life without any of the luxury he is now surrounded by, so that plays no part in his decision to stay, but the safety that comes with having at least one Avenger in the building at all times is invaluable.

For the first time since he escaped, the asset has been able to rest without fear that Hydra will come for him the second he closes his eyes, and he’s not ready to give that up yet.

“The roof,” he says. “Please. If I- if that’s…”

“Of course,” the voice agrees, and the asset feels the elevator begin to move, the ascent swift and smooth.

It’s only a few moments before the doors open again, and the asset steps forwards just as cautiously as he left his room.

If there are any lights on the roof, the voice hasn’t turned them on for him, but the ambient light of the city is more than enough for the asset to see by. He’s not up there to sit, so the asset bypasses the furniture, instead pacing a careful route around the edge of the rooftop, scoping it out for possible threats. There’s any number of acceptable hiding places, though none are occupied, and while there’s plenty of buildings with a clear line of sight at parts of the roof, there’s nowhere that would allow a potential assassin to cover all of it; although it clearly wasn’t designed by someone with any experience in assassinations, it’s also not as vulnerable to attacks other places the asset has been.

Besides, it’s clearly safe enough up there, because the archer is sat at the very edge of the rooftop, his legs dangling in a way that makes the asset feel deeply uneasy. He’s leaning his elbows on the railing surrounding the drop off, a pose that would be relaxed but for the way he’s staring over his shoulder at the asset.

“How did you get up here?” he demands, sounding slightly alarmed.

The asset falters, confused. “Steve said it was okay,” he answers slowly, before it occurs to him that his alarm is probably due to the fact that anyone sitting on a rooftop at this hour probably doesn’t want company. “Sorry, I’ll… I’ll go.”

“Shit, no, that wasn’t what I meant,” the archer says, urgent enough that the asset pauses. “Stay, any friend of Steve’s is a friend of mine.”

The asset isn’t entirely sure he wants to stay (he’s not here looking for company either), but the archer is already scrambling to his feet and ambling in the asset’s direction.

“Sorry,” he says. “Had a complete brain fart, forgot that Steve has- It’s you!”

The asset flinches at the abrupt change of tone, but manages not to retreat.

“Dude, you totally saved my life,” the archer continues, thrusting his hand in the asset’s direction. “Clint, Clint Barton, it’s good to meet you for real.”

It’s the first time since 1945 that someone has offered to shake the asset’s hand, and he’s wary about accepting it, if wary also means _downright uncomfortable_. The asset doesn’t like to be touched, but he also knows that refusing is rude, and while he’s spent a lot of time being unconcerned by other people thinking he’s rude, he thinks Steve would be unhappy about it.

The asset is trying very hard not to make Steve unhappy, and the fact that he’s failing so far means that he has to make extra effort not to make a bad impression on another one of Steve’s friends.

He accepts Clint Clint Barton’s hand, though he lets go as quickly as he can, immediately taking a step back.

Despite his efforts to pretend for Steve, the asset is not good at conversation. Because of this, he waits for Clint Clint Barton to continue the conversation, which is made difficult by the fact that Clint Clint Barton ‒ _just Clint, dumbass_, the asset tells himself._ He told you his name because he wants you to call him it_ ‒ seems to be waiting for him as well.

“This is usually where you’d give me your name,” Clint prompts eventually, still smiling, like maybe the asset isn’t making as big a mess of the interaction as he thinks he is.

“Steve calls me Bucky,” he answers, a few seconds too late.

“Yeah, I know he does,” Clint says. “But I thought it might be one of those childhood nicknames you spend your whole life trying to get away from, so I figured I’d give you the chance now. Is there something you’d prefer to be called?”

_The asset_, he thinks, which is obviously not the right answer. If he says that, Clint will tell Steve as soon as the conversation is over, which will end with Steve crying again (he thinks the asset doesn't know, and the asset doesn’t know how to respond to that other than to pretend), then running to wherever it is he runs when he's had enough of the asset. And, if that isn't bad enough, the asset will end up subjected to another one of Sam’s well-meaning conversations about identity.

Besides, he doesn't exactly _want_ to be called that anymore. The people who called him that were cruel, and the asset is indescribably pleased to be away from them. The asset was their tool, taken out of the box when they had a use for it and, if it was lucky, put away as soon as it had served its purpose. It wasn't a human being, not to Hydra and not to itself.

Even if he's still the asset in his head, he is _done_ with people thinking of him that way. He hasn’t killed anyone since rescuing Clint from Hydra, and he’s not intending on it any time soon, definitely not under orders. He’s no one’s asset, not now and not ever again.

He’s a fucking liability, is what he is.

The asset is a person now, and people have names. 

See? He doesn’t need Sam to talk to him about identity. He’s figuring that shit out all on his own.

“Barnes,” he says, after taking far too long to think about it. It might only be a step up from _the asset_, but he is choosing it, claiming it for himself. He can be Barnes, and Clint can tell whoever he wants to tell.

He ‒ _Barnes_, because that’s who he is going to be now ‒ is expecting Clint to say something about it, but all he does is smile again, clap Barnes on the arm, and say, “Okay, cool. Like I said, it’s good to meet you for real, Barnes. Hey, you disappeared last time before I could offer, but I totally owe you a beer, you want one?”

Barnes shrugs.

“Ah, of course you do,” Clint answers brightly, apparently not actually needing a committed response. “Everyone loves beer.”

He saunters off towards the building, as though turning his back on the Winter Soldier is nothing to be concerned about; so far, only Steve has been that blasé about showing Barnes his back, and that’s because Steve is a moron who forgets that the man he’s welcomed into his home is not the same one he lost seventy years ago. Barnes isn’t expecting a second person to be so comfortable in his presence, not as long as he lives, and the surprise of it leaves him stationary on the roof.

“Hey,” Clint calls from the doorway, only then looking back over his shoulder. “You coming, Barnes?”

Again, it doesn’t seem like Clint actually needs Barnes to respond, because by the time Barnes manages to make himself move, Clint is on the back of a couch, sock-clad feet planted on the cushions. There’s an open bottle of beer in his right hand and a second, still unopened bottle on the coffee table in front of him.

“Figured I’d let you get it,” Clint says, nodding at the bottle and holding out something in his other hand. “I’ve got the opener here, if-”

Barnes picks up the beer, a determined flick enough to remove the top. He’s not entirely sure he wants to drink, but he understands that it would be rude to refuse.

“Or you could do that, I guess,” Clint continues, tilting his bottle in Barnes’ direction.

Barnes feels the corners of his mouth twitch upwards, entirely without his consent, and he returns the gesture before taking a tiny, uncertain sip of his drink.

It’s not as bad as he was expecting.

“Look,” Clint says softly, fingers scratching at the label on his beer. “At some point Steve or Sam or whoever is going to want you talk to a therapist. If you’re anything like the rest of us, you won’t want to do it, but… Something happened to me, a couple years back. Not as bad as what you and Nat went through, but this guy got into my head, made me do some shit I never would have done if I’d had a choice. Fucked me up pretty badly for a while, and I was a stubborn bastard about it, refused to listen whenever anyone told me to get help.”

Clint pauses a moment, gesturing to the things in his ears, which Barnes remembers from last time are some kind of hearing device. “Of course, these things make it easier to ignore people, but I figure you’ll work out your own way to do it, so I’m going to get in with the advice early before you get good at tuning it out. With a therapist you trust, talking helps. You don’t get on with the first one, keep looking, but once you do find the right one, stick it out, okay?”

Barnes doesn’t know how he’s supposed to react, but he thinks, for once, that not knowing how to react might actually be normal in this situation. He takes another sip of his beer, and pushes himself to keep making eye contact with Clint.

Clint holds his gaze a moment, then nods once, sharply. “Okay,” he says, no longer serious. “Unsolicited advice over and done with. If you ever want to talk, or to sit and absolutely not talk, JARVIS’ll know where to find me, and until then I’ll leave it at that, unless there’s anything you want to ask.”

Barnes shakes his head, still not sure what he’s supposed to say or do here. It’s therefore reassuring that Clint doesn’t seem to be expecting anything in particular, still relaxed in his perch atop the couchback.

It occurs to him, then, that there is one thing he wants to know, and hasn’t wanted to ask Steve yet.

“Natalia?” he asks, then has to start over with, asking it from the beginning. “I thought she’d be here, but… Do you know where she is?”

He knows Steve would answer, if he asked, as would Sam, but he thinks it would hurt Steve to know that he’s asking about Natalia and barely able to speak to him. He’s trying, but Steve knows everything about who Barnes used to be while Barnes is barely scraping by in return, and he doesn’t know how to ask Steve without it seeming like it he cares more for someone who isn’t there than he does for the person who is.

He does care about Steve, of course he does, but the last two times he’s seen Natalia he put a bullet in her, and Barnes needs to know that she’s okay.

“Uh,” Clint says, sounding unsure, and then, “Oh, Natasha? Not sure, actually. Why?”

Again, Barnes shrugs, unsure how much of her past Natalia has shared with the Avengers: they could know that he shot her, years ago as well as more recently; maybe they know he trained her, even further back than that; there’s a chance they know neither, and an even slimmer chance they know both. He should have done better by Natalia decades ago, but it’s too late for him to fix that and the only way he can think of to make it up to her is making sure he doesn’t go spilling her beans all over the place.

“Want me to try get in touch with her?” Clint offers. “Might take a couple of days, but I’m happy to do it. She’s been off-grid for a while now, actually. About time she came back again.”

He stands up, feet still on the couch cushions, then hops to the ground. “Yep,” he says lightly. “That’s what I’ll do. You want another beer?”


	13. Interlude Two: Nathalie Rousseau, Part-Time Parisienne

It’s just past nine o’clock when Nathalie Rousseau steps out of her front door, her high-heeled sandals tapping sharply against the concrete sidewalk. There’s an extra bounce in her perfect, dark brown curls, an extra sway in her walk, and an extra sharp switchblade tucked in her bra.

Nathalie is more than ready for the day.

She pops her gum as she walks, loud and obnoxious, attention grabbing, returning the smiles of people who smile at her, smiling even brighter at those who don’t. Either way, they’re looking at her, and Nathalie does like to be noticed.

It’s not a long walk to the town centre, and Nathalie drifts from shop to shop, familiarising herself with what the little town has to offer. There’s a small number of boutique clothing stores (just about passable), a shoe store Nathalie immediately dismisses as painfully unfashionable (the kind of shoes her _grand-mère_ would wear, honestly), more secondhand bookshops than a town this size could possibly need, and a grocery store that… well, it’s small, but it will suffice.

Nathalie slides her oversized shades up to rest on top of her head before stepping inside, picking up a basket and following a zig-zag route around the grocery store. She’s already stocked up on non-perishables on her first few days in town – canned goods, flour, sugar, powdered milk, coffee, all those other boring things it'll be useful to have waiting in the cupboards next time she needs to get away from the city for a few days – so this trip is purely for things she _wants_ to eat. A bag of red grapes for snacking, bread and cheese for lunch, everything she needs to throw together a bolognaise for this evening, a pint of ice cream and the darkest bar of chocolate she can find just in case the occasion calls for it.

The young man working the checkout isn't someone she's seen before today, and he gawps as she unloads her basket onto the conveyor, his eyes shifting rapidly between the low neckline of her dress and the scar that starts just below the corner of her left eye, runs under her cheekbone and halts only a little way from her mouth.

Nathalie pops her gum again, loud enough that he jolts to attention. The poor boy blushes horribly, and Nathalie smiles to show she’s not offended.

“_Salut_,” she says brightly.

“_B-bonjour_,” he stutters, shakily returning her smile and putting what looks like an awful lot of effort into meeting her eyes. He’s clearly too embarrassed at being caught staring to make conversation as he scans her purchases, and in less than a minute Nathalie has her shopping bagged up and her wallet out ready to pay.

Her phone rings as the kid is counting out her change, and she answers without looking to see who is calling. “_Oui, Nathalie à l'appareil_.”

The other end of the call is silent, and then a very familiar voice says, “France, I take it. How’s it going?”

“_J'adore_,” she answers, smiling at the kid working the checkout desk. “_Le village est juste ravissant. Je pense passer un bon moment à le visiter_.”

“Uh-huh,” Clint agrees, sounding doubtful. “You gonna stay there long?”

“_Oh, encore quelques jours, enfin je pense_,” Nathalie says. “_Comme je te l'ai dit, je me sens super bien ici._”

“Uh-huh,” Clint says again, even more doubtfully. Nathalie doesn't argue, nor does she say anything else; sooner or later, Clint will get to his point, and she can wait an awful lot longer than he can. Sure enough, only a few seconds later he sighs, and there’s a definite note of desperation when he continues. “Look, Tasha, I get why you needed to do your own thing after everything that went down with SHIELD, but we could do with you here. Tony found Barnes.”

“_Merde_,” Natasha answers, only just remembering to keep her accent even as her carefully constructed persona slips away. She'd hoped by giving Stark the unredacted Winter Soldier file, he might understand enough to assign blame where it belongs. No part of her thinks it's fair to expect Tony to offer sanctuary to his parents’ murderer – even Steve wouldn't ask that of him, and Natasha has seen first hand just how far he would go for Bucky Barnes – but she'd thought maybe, given enough time to come to terms with it, Tony might be willing to leave Barnes in peace. “_Est-ce que quelqu'un-_” No, she's in a public place, that can't be her question; her Nathalie Rousseau identity can survive a few minutes without the smile and the bubbliness, but asking if anyone’s dead is much too noticeable. “_Qu'est ce qu'y s'est passé_?”

“Nah, they're fine,” Clint says, answering her unfinished question first. “Didn't even wind up fighting. Tony brought him in, called Steve home, and… I need backup, Nat.”

“You've got Bruce and Sam,” Natasha answers, in English now that she’s out of the store and far enough away from any other pedestrians not to be overheard. “You don't need me.”

“Barnes does,” he says, which was not what she was expecting. “I get maybe a fraction of what the two of you have been through, and the guy deserves more than that.”

“Clint,” Natasha starts; no one else would notice the quaver in her voice, but no one else knows her the way he does. Even so, Clint only knows her recent history with the Soldier, not the beginning, and so he can't understand why she's refusing.

Her memories of the Winter Soldier might have undergone some editing, but there is no reason why they would have wanted to remember him as the one spot of kindness in her childhood. All this time, she's let herself believe that much was true, that for a brief time there was someone who saw her as a child to be protected rather than a weapon to be honed, and she's not ready to say goodbye to that delusion just yet. “I can't, Clint. There's things I haven't told you.”

“Yeah, I get that,” he says, pausing for a long moment. “I'm not asking you to, I promise, but… He asked after you, Tash. Seemed pretty worried that you weren’t around.”

_Oh_, Natasha thinks. Lets herself hope, just for a moment. “What did he say?”

“Mostly just that,” he says. “Think he wanted to know you were okay after he shot you. Called you Natalia, wasn’t sure if I should tell him you don’t go by that anymore.”

“Oh,” Natasha thinks again, this time aloud. “It’s okay. He can call me that.” She pauses, trying to reign in the childish sentimentality she should definitely be above feeling. “Give me a couple of days, I’ll find a flight home.”

“I can send the jet,” Clint offers. “Much quicker.”

“I’ll find a flight,” Natasha repeats. After all, she quite likes being Nathalie Rousseau, and a Quinjet landing in the street would definitely break her cover. “_À bientôt_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations into French were provided by Chalenmimi, and the English is below:
> 
> _Grand-mère_: Grandmother  
_Salut_: Hi  
_B-bonjour_: Hello  
_Oui, Nathalie à l'appareil_: Yes, Nathalie speaking  
_J'adore. Le village est juste ravissant. Je pense passer un bon moment à le visiter._: I love it. The village is just lovely. I think I’ll enjoy visiting.  
_Oh, encore quelques jours, enfin je pense. Comme je te l'ai dit, je me sens super bien ici._: A few more days, I think. Like I said, I like it here.  
_Merde. Est-ce que quelqu'un-_: Shit. Is anyone-  
_Qu'est ce qu'y s'est passé?_: What happened?  
_À bientôt_: See you soon


	14. Chapter Eleven

Because Sam is basically the best best friend a guy could ask for, he only nags Steve for about two minutes about the importance of taking time for himself before giving up, telling himself that he’ll try again tomorrow to get Steve to come for a run with him.

It’s a nice enough day out, crisp and clear, not a cloud in sight. It’ll heat up later on, no doubt of that, but for now it’s the perfect temperature for running, and between that and the fact that he hasn’t once been overtaken by a ‘roided up golden retriever, Sam is in an excellent mood by the time he jogs back into the Tower.

The security guards on the door greet him by name, which is still a bit of a mind-fuck (he’s spent years knowing security would much rather move him out of places like this as soon as possible, so being welcomed is taking a while to sink in), and he throws a wink to the cute newbie working the reception desk on his way over to the elevator. She blushes, and smiles shyly, both of which are every bit as gratifying as they have been every other day this week, and Sam’s still grinning to himself when he rolls up at the Avengers’ floor to see whose turn it was to sort out breakfast today (it’s great that they all try, but some people were just not meant to cook).

There’s a bag of bagels and a box of doughnuts on the table, clearly bought in, so Sam sticks around, pouring himself a glass of orange juice before getting a clean plate and knife from the dishwasher (turns out, an AI-butler is good for making sure the dishes get in the machine cleaned, but not so great at getting them back into the cupboard afterwards, and Sam is _not_ putting stuff away again. He’ll do emotional support and gallant loser at anything from poker to hand-to-hand, but he draws the line at housekeeper) before sitting down.

“Morning,” he says lightly, getting a slight smile from Bruce and a grunt from Clint.

Bruce responds to his _what’s up with him? _look with a shrug, which isn’t as informative as he was hoping for, but Sam considers it a well-established fact that he is the only one of the lunatics he now calls friends to be at all emotionally stable.

“You alright, Hawkeye?”

“Tired,” Clint answers, grimacing as he continuing the established pattern of uninformativeness. “Didn’t sleep much.”

Sam hears the _nightmares_ explanation just as clearly as if Clint had said it, if only because he’s so freaking familiar with them himself, and figures this is where he stops asking questions. If it was Steve, he’d push, but he doesn’t think he and Clint are at a point where that would be acceptable yet, so he just lets it go, nudging the bagels a little closer to his side of the table.

“Sucks, that,” he agrees, then gets busy with slathering his own bagel in cream cheese and digging in.

Clint ignores the bagels, instead taking a glittery purple monstrosity from the box of doughnuts. Sam was raised with some damn strict rules about food, including the fact that it shouldn’t ever sparkle (and it definitely shouldn’t be torn into pieces and dunked in coffee before it’s eaten), but he’s also far too sensible to argue with anyone as handy with a bow and arrow as Clint is, so that also goes on the _letting it go_ list, and the three of them continue eating in a semi-comfortable silence.

Sam has finished eating and, because he’s a goddamn sucker, started putting the clean dishes where he thinks they should live (if he’s the one tidying up, it gets to be his decision, and anyone who has a problem with that should have done it earlier) before Clint is apparently sugared up enough to start a conversation for real.

“So, hey,” he starts, reaching for a second doughnut. “You remember that time you all fucked off to Spain and left me tied up in a basement somewhere?”

Bruce rolls his eyes, looking unphased, which at least helps to lessen Sam’s concern a little. “I remember the time Steve called us in to help with a Hydra base, and you didn’t answer your cellphone when we tried to get a hold of you.”

“Because I was tied up in a basement, yeah,” Clint agrees. “You lot left me for dead, and the only reason I’m sitting here is because this really angry homeless dude got me out of there.”

“That’s good…?” Sam offers, when Bruce doesn’t seem inclined to defend himself further.

“Right? At least someone around here cares about my well-being.” Bruce’s eye twitches, just a little bit, but apparently that’s enough for Clint to decide he better get off that particular train of thought. “So, anyway,” he continues, pausing to lick doughnut guts off his fingers. “I was up on the roof last night, like, contemplating the meaning of life and whatever, and guess who shows up?”

“We’re coming back to that _contemplating the meaning of life on top of a sixty-whatever storey building_ thing later,” Sam answers, because there’s no way in hell that’s healthy. “But I’ll bite for now. How did a _really angry homeless dude_ wind up on the roof of one of the most secure buildings in Manhattan?”

Clint laughs, making a grab for a third doughnut, but apparently Bruce isn’t over his _you left me for dead_ jibes, because he yanks the box well out of reach and picks out the chocolatiest doughnut Sam has ever seen.

“Dick,” Clint mutters. “And since you’re sharing a floor with the guy, you’ll have to tell me, Falcon.”

Given that he’s sharing with exactly two other people and Steve was obviously not in the city then, there’s no possible reason Sam should be struggling to work out who Clint is talking about. And yet, he’s still trying to make himself believe it when Bruce says, “Bucky was the one who rescued you?”

“Yup,” Clint agrees. “Surprised me, too. Oh, and he said he prefers Barnes, if you ever see him out and about.”

“Sorry, what?” Sam asks, sort of assuming the clack of the plates he’s just put away has made him mishear that. “He told you that?”

Clint shrugs. “I mean, I asked him if he was okay with Bucky or if it was some kid nickname he wanted to get rid of and he’d prefer something else, and that’s what he said, so…”

Abruptly, Sam feels like a dick. After months of listening to Steve talking about Bucky-this and Bucky-that, and then the way he reacted to Steve calling him Bucky, it hadn’t even occurred to Sam to ask, and he should have done. He absolutely should have done. Yeah, he’s been calling the guy Barnes, but he never asked, just assumed he’d be uncomfortable with a stranger calling him Bucky. After all the training he’s had (admittedly none of it in helping people with the level of trauma Barnes has, but that’s neither here nor there), Sam should have known better than to assume.

But, because Sam knows just how black a hole self-recrimination can send him into, he pushes himself to look on the brighter side, which is actually pretty damn bright. For the first time since he got here, Barnes has expressed a preference for something, and that’s definitely something to be celebrated.

“Thanks for letting me know,” he says, putting away the last of the glasses. “He tell you anything else?”

“Not really,” Clint says, shaking his head. “Accepted a beer when I offered him one, but that’s about it.”

That’s also something noteworthy, Sam thinks; as far as he knows, Barnes has only been willing to eat and drink stuff Steve has given him, and he always waits for Steve to eat first if Sam’s done the cooking, so accepting something from a stranger is both unusual and a definite positive.

“Good job, man,” Sam says, not mentioning that that’s actually one hell of a reaction from Barnes, but judging by the proud expression Clint’s wearing he’s not entirely sure he doesn’t know anyway. And, because Sam’s apparently not as immune to a bit of one upmanship as he might like to be, he’s also going to take the rest of the bag of bagels, see if he can talk Barnes into having something other than Steve’s shitty attempt at oatmeal for breakfast. “You guys are done with the breakfast stuff, right?”

“I’ll take something down to Tony in a bit, if you could leave one of each,” Bruce answers, while Clint grabs for the doughnut box, quite clearly not done with them; it’s not a fight Sam is interested in having (_food shouldn’t sparkle_), so he just gets a plate back out of the cupboard, leaves a couple of bagels on it, and then takes the bag for himself.

“Oh,” Clint adds, as Sam heads for the elevator. “Can you tell him I said _three days_? He’ll know what it’s about.”

“Suuuure,” Sam agrees, once again deciding not to ask.

Honestly, he thinks he’s getting the hang of the whole _living with the Avengers _thing.

X

Despite the fact that Barnes never actually confirmed that he wanted Clint to contact Natalia, he’s not entirely surprised when Sam tells him that’s what’s happened, nor is he remotely surprised when he leaves his bedroom on the morning of the third day to find her sat in the kitchen with Steve and Sam.

Steve looks instantly on edge, like he thinks he’s going to have to jump between them, but neither Sam nor Natalia seems remotely concerned, so Barnes does his best to pretend nothing is different. He mumbles a response when Sam says good morning, answers Steve’s tense smile with an equally tense nod, and doesn’t manage to do much more than glance at Natalia out the corner of his eye.

“Go get changed, Steve,” she says abruptly. Judging by the way Steve jumps and glares at her, she’s probably also kicked him under the table.

“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing now?” he asks, looking down at himself like he thinks his clothes might have changed since he put them on.

“They’re hardly clothes for running in,” Natalia tells him, scathing. “You and Sam are leaving in… How many minutes was it, Sam?”

“I don’t think St-” Sam starts, only to stop very quickly when Natalia turns her gaze to him. “Um, two minutes? Is that long enough, Steve?”

Steve looks at him, that disappointed expression Barnes has just been waiting to have turned on him since he got back here. Sam apparently finds the prospect of letting Steve down somewhat less abhorrent than Barnes does, because he just shrugs. “What, like I’m going to argue with her?” he asks. “She’s terrifying.”

Natalia positively beams.

Steve looks between the two of them, frowning, and then turns his attention to Barnes. “Is it okay with you if I go running, Buck?”

Barnes was not expecting that, not at all, and it takes him a long time to really understand. It sounds like Steve is asking his permission, but that’s so patently ridiculous it obviously can’t be the case. Barnes can’t remember Steve ever waiting for anyone’s permission, let alone his, and the idea that he might start now that Barnes is barely even himself is just stupid.

No, Steve definitely isn’t asking permission. He just doesn’t want to come home to find his friend bleeding.

“I won’t hurt her,” he says decisively; if he was willing to let Stark take a free shot at him, he’s definitely not going to fight his spiderling, who probably deserves vengeance more than anyone.

“That’s really not what I’m worrying about,” Steve answers, but he sighs, then sort of smiles. “Fine, I’ll go. Behave yourself.”

Barnes is already nodding when he realises those last two words are directed at Natalia, not him.

“Don’t I always?” she answers sweetly, smiling at Steve until he backs out of the room.

“God, I wish I had your superpowers,” Sam mutters once he’s gone, taking a second bottle from the cupboard under the sink and filling it from the tap.

“No powers here,” Natalia says. “Just practice. With the right training, you too can be a terrifying Russian assassin.”

Sam blinks at her, surprised, then glances at Barnes for his reaction. Unfortunately for him, Barnes is working very hard at not having one, so Sam is just going to have to decide for himself whether he wants to object to her words.

“Hard pass on that,” he says eventually, which makes Natalia smile again.

“You’re sure you’re okay with this?” Steve asks, reemerging from his bedroom dressed in the sort of clothes Barnes saw lots of people wear for exercise before Stark found him, except Steve’s running clothes fit much tighter than most people’s.

“Oh, more than,” Natalia answers, giving him a look so thoroughly approving that Steve blushes. “Off you pop, boys.”

Steve hesitates, giving Barnes one last look before deciding to make what Barnes thinks is probably his first ever tactical retreat. “Fine, we’ll go,” he says, speaking for both of them like he’s somehow missed the fact that Sam is already edging his way into the elevator. “Let JARVIS know if you need anything, okay, Bucky?”

Barnes nods, and he and Natalia both watch as Steve joins Sam in the elevator, glancing back over his shoulder at least every other second.

“Let’s sit,” Natalia instructs, picking up both the mug from the counter next to her and the one Steve put down before she chased him out of there, then leading Barnes from the kitchen to a couch so soft Barnes still hesitates to sit on it.

Still, Natalia’s expression leaves no room for argument, so he perches at one end, accepting Steve’s mug of coffee when she thrusts it at him, then sits down herself.

All of a sudden, the determined confidence she used to chase Steve out of the apartment is gone, and the woman beside him looks an awful lot younger, and something very close to vulnerable.

“I remember you,” she says softly, her gaze firmly on her coffee. “You taught me to dance.”

Barnes tries, very hard, to remember it. _Dancing_ brings to mind flashes of Steve, small and complaining, and of music, loud and enthusiastic. Men and women in crowded halls, stepping and spinning, laughing and happy.

He remembers Natalia, too. Every bit as small as Steve, and every bit as fierce. His Natalia was bright and sharp, absolutely lethal even as a child. She was an attentive pupil, the best of them, but he cannot believe the Winter Soldier was ever a dance instructor.

“No,” he says sadly. “I don't think I did.”

Natalia laughs under her breath. “No,” she agrees. “They did things to my memory, too.”

The horror of it renders Barnes silent, barely even breathing. The Red Room did awful things to their operatives, _awful_, and they never cared whether the operative in question was old enough to vote or not, but the thought of his spiderling in the chair they used on him makes Barnes nauseous. Natalia was seven the first time he saw her, sixteen the last (before they sent him to kill her, at least), and that monstrosity would have dwarfed her at any age, pale skin and fiery hair cast in stark relief by all that black leather, screams echoing in the cold concrete room the chair lived in.

“They didn’t…” he manages, when the revulsion fades enough for him to find words. “Natalia, I…” Barnes falters, another wave of nausea striking him, and he can’t manage anything more complex than, “You were so small.”

She shrugs and then, slowly enough to give him the chance to pull away if he wishes, she reaches out, resting her free hand, still so small and fragile, atop his. “It was a long time ago,” she says pragmatically, as though Barnes doesn’t know perfectly well that there are some pains time doesn’t touch.

Barnes turns his hand under hers, putting them palm to palm, and closes his scarred, awful, murderer’s fingers around her dainty ones. “I’m sorry, Natalia,” he says, the words only a little more than a whisper, knowing as he does so that this isn’t something he can make better by apologising.

Natalia was a child, all of them were, and Barnes never did a thing to get them out of there. He never even thought of it.

“No, Yasha,” she says. “I remember many dancing instructors, but only one who was ever kind to us. You had just as little in the way of freedom as the rest of us did, and you still treated us better than anyone who chose to be there. You have _nothing_ to be sorry for.”

She shifts closer, and then closer still, leaning against Barnes’ side and resting her head on his shoulder. It’s the longest someone has touched him without intending to cause suffering in more time than Barnes can remember, and while he doesn’t feel entirely comfortable with it, he also doesn’t _not_ feel comfortable with it. Mostly, it feels strange, unfamiliar, and Barnes just sits there, still, and tries to work out how Natalia wants him to respond.

Eventually, he manages to untense his muscles enough to lean back, his cheek pressed against her soft, almost unscented hair. Natalia doesn't move away, so Barnes has to assume this was the correct reaction. It's not as uncomfortable as he might have expected, letting someone touch him like this, and the two of them are still sitting there when Steve and Sam return from their run.

He's worried, for a moment, that Steve will be upset that he's letting Natalia close so soon after she got back but is still keeping Steve at such a careful, safe distance. He would be within his rights to be hurt, or jealous, and although Barnes knows and almost manages to believe that Steve won't cause him physical harm he does still expect him to make his displeasure known, whether by word or deed.

But Steve just smiles at the pair of them, nothing but happiness on his face, and asks Natalia if she wants to stay for breakfast.

“God, no,” Natalia answers, laughing. She rises, stretching, and offers Barnes a hand. “I’m going to downstairs, where the food might actually be edible, and Yasha’s coming with me, aren’t you?”

Barnes accepts her hand, though he stands up under his own power. Like Sam said, it’s better not to argue with Natalia.

X

Despite Bucky’s conviction that he’ll be okay (or, rather, Natasha’s conviction and Bucky completely missing what Steve was worried about), Steve ends up pushing himself harder than he normally would on his run. Nothing hurts, but then it takes more than a marathon for Steve to start aching, and he’s pretty sure he’s just run his _it’s fine, nothing’s chasing me_ personal best.

Sam is starting to get irritated by the third time Steve overtakes him, and by the fifth he’s very definitely pissed off, yelling at him to just run home, if he’s really that anxious.

Steve doesn’t think he meant it as an actual instruction, but he’s perfectly happy to take it as one; when he completes his current lap of the park, he immediately heads for the tower, slowing to a slightly more reasonable pace in deference to the number of pedestrians on the street.

He knows it’s stupid to be worried, because if Natasha wanted to harm Bucky, she definitely wouldn’t do so in the Tower, under JARVIS’ watchful gaze. Hell, he’s mostly certain she _doesn’t _want to harm him, but her sudden reappearance has him on edge, as does her virtually pushing him out of there this morning, and… And Steve’s spent almost every second since that day in Washington worrying about Bucky, and that worry doesn’t just go away now that he knows where he is.

It is the very best kind of surprise when he stumbles back onto their floor to find Bucky and Nat sat on the couch together. She’s resting on his shoulder, eyes closed, while Bucky’s head is leaning against hers, both of them looking relaxed and soft, younger, and Steve’s fingers itch for a pencil so that he can make a record of this moment, have something to fall back on for those moments when Bucky seems like he’ll never be at peace again.

It doesn’t last, of course; Bucky tenses up the moment he realises Steve is there, pulling away from Natasha, though she makes zero effort to move.

There’s something Steve’s missed here, something more than the story Nat told him in the hospital, but he decides then and there not to ask. Whatever it is is between them, and as long as it makes Bucky feel as comfortable as he seemed just then, Steve is entirely happy to let it stay that way.

He follows willingly when Natasha suggests they have breakfast with the team, as does Bucky, though he does seem moderately baffled by what’s happening.

Clint and Bruce are in the kitchen when they get there, bickering over whose turn it is to cook and what they want to eat. Nat, being Nat, steamrollers straight past them, extracting two waffle makers from the first cupboard she opens (Steve’s going to pretend that’s not blatantly witchcraft of some sort), plugs them both in, and sets Clint to making batter and Bruce to chopping fruit.

“Sit,” she tells Bucky, waiting for him to obey before fixing two cups of coffee and joining him at the table. “Steve, do you want to sort out plates?”

Given who's talking, Steve decides to it’s safest to ignore the _do you want to_ part of her question and get right to the part that isn’t a request. “Sure. You gonna tell me where they are, or do I have to guess?”

Nat, Bruce and Clint promptly point to three different cupboards, though there’s absolutely no prize for guessing which one of them is right; Steve gets eight plates out of Nat’s cupboard, figuring Sam is going to show up seeking food as soon as he gets back from his run, and since Nat has apparently decided she and Bucky are friends, Steve can take a plate down to Tony after they’re done eating.

Natasha takes over when it’s time to actually start cooking, and within a few minutes there are several bowls of fruit and a large pile of waffles in the centre of the table.

Meals with the team are always a bit of a free for all, but even when Sam joins them today continues to be a relatively sedate affair; yes, there’s not an abundance of pleases and thank yous, but at no point does anyone wind up with a fork embedded in their person, so Steve is willing to consider Bucky’s first meal with the team a success.

They’re all more-or-less finished and squabbling about whose turn it is to do the washing up when Tony arrives, at which point the light-hearted arguing comes to a very sudden halt.

“Hey, don’t let me interrupt,” Tony says, making a beeline straight for the coffee maker without looking at any of them. He’s obviously trying very hard to sound light, but it’s only sort of successful, and even that is belied by the fact that his shoulders are rigid with tension, spine just about straight enough to use as a ruler. “I mean, I’m a little offended you’re all apparently having a breakfast party in my own home without inviting me, but, hey, I’m the only one of you who works for a living, maybe you just thought I was too busy to join you. Which, yeah, I am today, absolutely too busy, but it would have been nice to be asked, you know?”

“It wasn’t planned,” Bruce says reasonably, when Tony actually pauses for breath. “Natasha decided we were having waffles, and everything went from them.”

Tony blinks, quiet for a very short moment, then says, “Oh, hi Natasha. Been a while. How’s unemployment treating you?”

“Who says I’m unemployed?” Nat answers, enigmatic as ever, and, honestly, Steve knows better than to question her. She’s always had her fingers in more pies than he can count, and the collapse of SHIELD isn’t going to have lessened that number any; Steve makes a mental note to check in with her later, see if there’s anything the rest of them ought to be concerned by.

It’s definitely a matter for later, though, because Tony is already heading back to the elevator, coffee mug in hand, and Steve thinks making sure he’s okay probably takes priority.

He stands up, pushing his chair back too quickly and grimacing at the noise it makes, then pauses briefly to plate up the last two waffles. He drowns them in syrup, the way Tony usually has them, and bats Clint’s hand away from the leftover blueberries, tipping them over the top in a poorly presented but earnestly intended apology gift.

“I’ll be right back,” he promises, waiting for Bucky to meet his gaze before leaving the kitchen.

Because he’s hands down the best person any of them have ever met, JARVIS has seen fit to keep the elevator (and therefore Tony) waiting for him, and Steve steps inside just before the doors close.

“I’m sorry,” he says, presenting Tony with his breakfast offering.

Tony frowns at it, then up at Steve, then back at the plate again. He doesn’t accept it, but he does pick up a single blueberry, dragging it through a pool of syrup before putting it in his mouth. “For…?” he asks, then makes a tremendously distracting production of licking the syrup off his fingers.

“Bucky being there,” Steve explains, once he’s managed to steer his brain back to the topic at hand. “Or, not warning you he would be, I guess. Natasha decided we were all going to eat here, and-”

“And no one argues with Natasha,” Tony finishes for him, looking considerably less tense than he did in the kitchen. He still doesn’t take the plate, but he does make another move for its contents, this time tearing off a piece of waffle, making just as much a show of eating it. “It’s fine. If you want him to realise he’s not a prisoner anymore, you can’t go worrying about checking he’s allowed to be places before you go there.”

“Yeah…” Steve agrees, because obviously Tony is right, and Bucky should feel he’s able to go where he wants, whether it’s to the rooftop at night, meals with the team, or anywhere else that occurs to him. But, equally obviously, Tony is missing the point, which is that he has already gone far above and beyond anything Steve could have asked of him, and Steve doesn’t want Bucky’s presence to be contingent on Tony’s absence. 

“But it’s your house,” he says. “You should be able to feel safe here.”

Tony laughs, leaning forward until his forehead rests on Steve’s shoulder, somehow managing to do it without either spilling his coffee or upending his syrupy breakfast everywhere. “I _do_, Steve,” he promises. “JARVIS told me he was there. I wasn’t surprised.”

“Oh,” Steve manages, feeling massively unintelligent. Of course JARVIS would have warned Tony. Unlike Steve, JARVIS has the good sense to at least try to make sure Tony isn’t going to walk into any situation that’s going to make him uncomfortable, even if Tony’s _Tony-ness_ means that he doesn’t always listen.

“Yeah, oh,” Tony agrees, straightening up again. “Don’t worry so much, Steve. He’s got the same basic access rights as everyone else, so as far as I’m concerned Barnes can go where he likes, okay?”

“Okay,” Steve says, deciding to take him at his word for now.

“Okay,” Tony repeats, bobbing up on his toes so he can press a kiss to Steve’s cheek. “Now, I really do have things to be doing, before Pep decides she needs to fly back from Miami to beat me into shape, and you should get back upstairs before your boy comes looking for you. Or, worse, Natasha does.”

He shudders theatrically, although Steve entirely understands the sentiment; interrogations from Natasha are definitely not something to be sniffed at.

“Yeah,” he answers, then adds, “Thanks, Tony.”

“Anytime, Capslock,” Tony agrees, finally allowing Steve to hand him the plate, then steps out of the elevator. “Hey,” he adds, “I’ll probably be working late tonight, if you want to come down to the shop instead of the penthouse.”

He has to know Steve always checks with JARVIS before going to find him, but Steve still like that he’s essentially making a plan for them, even if it’s just a plan for Steve to spend the evening sat on the couch doodling while Tony works.

“Okay. See you then.”

X

“Well, Sir?” JARVIS asks, once Steve is on his way back upstairs.

“Yeah,” Tony answers, taking a healthy gulp of coffee to settle his nerves before picking at his breakfast. “Yeah, I think that went okay.”

“Very good, Sir,” JARVIS says, relaunching all the holograms Tony closed down when JARVIS first told him Barnes was out and about.

Yeah. Tony’s proven to himself that he can be in the same room as Barnes without having a freakout, even if he wasn’t there all that long. Next step, catch Barnes when Steve is elsewhere, so that he can ask about the Howard situation.

X

Unfortunately, finding an opportunity to talk Barnes without Steve seems to be damn near impossible. Sure, the two of them are a couple of floors apart at least five out of every seven nights, but since that’s because Steve is with Tony, they don’t exactly count as an opportunity.

Tony makes an effort to swing by the kitchen at least one meal a day, but either Steve and Barnes show up or neither of them do; even on the days Steve and Sam go running first thing in the morning, Barnes still waits for Steve to get back before he goes to breakfast.

Eventually, Tony decides that waiting for him to show up in a communal space unaccompanied just isn’t going to happen; if he wants to talk to Barnes, Tony is going to have to go to his space.

He waits until the next time JARVIS tells him Steve and Sam have headed out for the morning, then checks Natasha isn’t around. On receiving confirmation that she’s yet to leave her floor, Tony asks JARVIS to ask Barnes if it’s okay for him to show up.

“I have passed on your request, Sir,” JARVIS answers a minute or so later. “Sergeant Barnes seems perplexed, but has not expressed any objection.”

“Awesome,” Tony mutters, only hesitating a moment before setting off up there, thinking reassuring and only slightly desperate thoughts at himself.

He’s Iron Man, for crying out loud. An actual goddamn superhero, with the action figures and nemeses to prove it. He’s in his own home, he has the prototype mini repulsors on his wrists if Barnes even twitches the wrong way, and JARVIS is ready to sound absolutely every alarm in the building if he needs to. There’s no need for Tony to be nervous.

He’s still trying to convince himself of that when the elevator arrives, and Tony takes one final moment to gather himself before stepping into Steve’s living room.

It’s a while since Tony was last there, well before Steve took down SHIELD, but absolutely nothing has changed. The furniture is exactly what Pepper picked out, the paintings on the wall are the same ones she picked out, and with the exception of what Tony assumes are Wilson’s boots (they’re too small to be Steve’s, at any rate, and he can’t imagine Barnes leaving his belongings lying around) by the door, there’s just as few personal effects as before.

And then there’s Barnes, standing in the middle of the room, looking uncomfortable and saying absolutely nothing.

“Hey,” Tony says.

He’s not exactly surprised when Barnes doesn’t answer for a good twenty seconds, because from what he’s seen Barnes rarely speaks unless he’s thought through his words for at least that long.

“Steve isn’t here.”

“Yeah, I know,” Tony tells him. “That’s actually why I’m here, I wanted to talk to you while he was out.” He gives Barnes a moment to take that in, figures silence is as much of a go ahead as he’s going to get, then says, “Okay, so, I get that this is _awkward_, but you remember my old man, right?”

Barnes winces, then nods, hunching in on himself like he’s waiting for Tony to attack, apparently completely missing the fact that if Tony was going to attack, he’d have done so before Barnes was in his home.

“Okay,” Tony says again, then takes a deep breath. “Did you ever see him around? After you, you know…” 

He’s not thinking at all when he raises his right hand and makes a sort of swoopy falling gesture, and, sure, Tony doesn’t exactly have a reputation for being sensitive but even he knows that was bad.

Barnes doesn’t say anything in the few seconds Tony is mortified and silent, though, and Tony continues, figuring hey, he can’t actually make it any worse. “And before you, you know…” That, Tony’s hand decides to follow with a throat slit gesture, and, Jesus Christ, that’s a whole hell of a lot worse, fuck, Steve’s going to be so fucking disappointed in him when he hears about this.

Still, at this point he really doesn’t think finally asking his question will make Barnes feel any worse, even if Tony’s feelings are very much dependent on Barnes’ answer; he clasps his hands behind his back, hoping to at least avoid any more terrible gestures, and says, “Just, in the files, I found- There was a blueprint, for your, you know, arm, and it had his initials, so I thought. Yeah. Did you ever see him?”

Barnes frowns, though since he’s only doing so now rather than a few moments ago Tony decides to believe it’s because he’s trying to remember rather than because he’s offended. Tony doesn’t try to hurry him, figuring he’d rather get the very slow, considered answer that Barnes is sure about than a rushed one he might later change his mind about.

Still, he’s also not known for his patience, and Tony is fidgeting more than a little bit by the time Barnes finally answers.

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

Barnes pauses again, then says, “As I can be. Howard wasn’t one of them.”

“Oh,” Tony answers, relief hitting him so hard he feels winded.

He wasn’t expecting to be relieved, just like he doesn’t really think he would have been surprised if Barnes had said yes, Tony’s father was Hydra. Either would have suggested Tony still had enough faith in Howard to be disappointed by his being an even bigger jackass than he was to his family, and… Well, Tony would have said he gave up expecting better from Howard back before he turned ten.

But, hey, Howard might have been an asshole, but he probably wasn’t a nazi.

“Oh,” Tony says again, not so much smiling at Barnes as he is just smiling in general, and he’s suddenly feeling a whole lot more gracious and welcoming than he was before, enough so to make an offer he’s refused to consider making before now. “Well, anyway, I’ve got the blueprints, and JARVIS has done so scans, so if you ever decide you’re ready to have that fixed up, tell J to let me know. No need for you to come to the workshop, I’ll bring a toolkit to dinner, or whatever.”

“No,” Barnes answers, after the customary delay. “Thank you.”

“Eh, don’t mention it,” Tony tells him. “Offer stands, though, if you change your mind.”

Barnes nods, and Tony figures that’s enough of that conversation.


	15. Chapter Twelve

The bed is empty when Tony wakes up, which isn’t exactly unusual. Now that he’s started up running again, Steve insists on going out first thing in the morning most days (and, as if that’s not already crazy enough, he chooses to do so outside, rather than in the state of the art gym Tony put a lot of effort into getting someone to design), so even when Tony goes to bed next to him he doesn’t normally wake up that way, and apparently Steve is stealthy enough to get up and get dressed without disturbing Tony.

Tony spends a fair few minutes lying there before the need for caffeine wins out, at which point he rolls out of bed, pulling on yesterday’s jeans and the first clean tee-shirt he comes across.

“Where is everyone, J?” he asks, pausing before starting the penthouse coffee machine in the hopes that there’ll be someone in the team’s kitchen who’ll have taken care of that job for him, and hopefully also produced something in the way of breakfast.

“Captain Rogers and Sergeant Wilson departed thirty-seven minutes ago,” JARVIS answers. “Agents Barton and Romanov remain on their own floors, and Doctor Banner is currently in his lab. Sergeant Barnes is in the kitchen downstairs, and I believe Thor is also on his way there.”

As far as Tony’s aware, it’s the first time Barnes has been outside of Steve’s floor alone. After the first few weeks where Barnes never left made a move to leave Steve’s floor, he’s seemed happy (or at least willing) to follow Steve, Sam or Natasha when they’re out and about within the Tower, and according to JARVIS Barnes and Clint have been spending a fair amount of time together in the evenings, sometimes with Natasha as well, and Tony has no interest at all in interrupting their little Assassins Anonymous gatherings.

Barnes on his own is not the norm, though, and now that he’s got the awkward Howard conversation out of the way Tony wouldn’t even consider joining him if the situation was different, but… Well, Tony thinks it’s probably best that someone else be around to make introductions between Barnes and Thor, and apparently he’s the only one available to do so.

Goddamnit. Tony had only wanted someone to cook him breakfast.

“Best head down there, then,” he says reluctantly. “See if you can slow Thor down any, would you?”

It’s not a long elevator ride, but Tony fidgets his way through it, hoping hard that he’s going to beat Thor there; keeping the Tower in decent shape is already difficult enough, without adding in repairs from what happens when an alien deity accidentally startles a very twitchy supersoldier.

Fortunately, JARVIS seems to be doing a decent job of stalling Thor, because Barnes is still the only one on the communal floor when Tony steps out of the elevator, standing hunch-shouldered in the very corner of the kitchen, eyes darting all over the place.

Tony makes a concentrated effort not to stare at him, instead opting to pour himself a coffee, then another for Thor, since he’ll be there any minute, and a third for Barnes, who’ll either drink it or won’t but there’s no point offering first because, based on what Tony’s seen of his interactions with the others, he’s unlikely to give an answer either way.

“Here,” he says, sliding the mug a few feet down the counter before setting the pot to refill, too, because at some point the rest of the team will pass through the kitchen and Tony’s fairly sure JARVIS will out him as the dick who finished it off if he doesn’t. “Brace yourself,” he adds, still not looking directly at Barnes. “We’re about to have incoming.”

Tony sees Barnes flinch out the corner of his eye, and rushes to add, “Not like that! He’s a friend, definitely a friend. Just… enthusiastic. Thought you should be warned.”

Maybe Barnes is going to answer, in that very delayed fashion with which he still approaches most conversations, but if so he doesn’t get the opportunity; apparently JARVIS decides he’s distracted Thor for long enough, and Tony only just has enough time to put his mug down and step into the middle of the room before Thor is there in front of him.

“Tony Stark!” he booms, hauling Tony into the kind of hug that makes bears look puny. “It is good to see you, my friend.”

“You too, buddy,” Tony answers, returning Thor’s rib-cracking thumps on the back with ones that are far less powerful, though not for lack of trying. “Don’t suppose you could put me down, could you?” he asks after a moment.

Tony’s feet are back on the floor before he finishes the request, and he smiles as he waves away Thor’s very earnest apologies; turns out, having probably bruised ribs doesn’t make Thor’s enthusiasm any easier to resist, or any harder to forgive.

“So, hey,” he says, tone deliberately light, even if his position between Barnes and Thor means he currently feels anything but light. “Thor, this is Steve’s friend Bucky Barnes. Barnes, this is Thor.”

Thor looks surprised, if only for a second, but thankfully has the good sense not to say _Steve said you were dead_. “It’s an honour to meet you, Bucky Barnes,” he says, stepping around Tony so that he can give Barnes a graceful, sweeping bow. “Steve has told us much of your exploits together.”

Barnes’ expression, when Tony turns to look at him, very clearly translates to _is he for fucking real?_ Tony doesn’t know if he’s supposed to nod or shake his head, so he settles for grinning and heading back over to where he left his coffee.

“Thank you?” Barnes manages eventually, which makes Thor beam in an only slightly dazzling way.

“Okay,” Tony says, after a moment of that. “So, don’t think I’m not pleased to see you, because I absolutely am, but it’s been long enough that I’m entitled to ask. What brings you by, Thor?”

“Jane is presenting a paper next week,” Thor explains proudly. “I thought perhaps yourself or Doctor Banner may wish to accompany me. Assuming our good captain doesn’t object, that is.”

Tony inhales his coffee, splutters slightly, and tries (and most likely fails) to keep his glance in Barnes’ direction a surreptitious one. “Why would Steve object?”

“I didn’t mean to suggest he has control over your actions, Tony,” Thor answers (or doesn’t, really, since it in no way resolves Tony’s query), his words coming quickly and sounding very serious. “I do not believe Steve would take advantage of your relationship like that.”

“Um,” says Tony, glancing over at Barnes again. “Yeah, Steve’s a good friend like that. Yeah.”

Two _yeah_s is definitely one too many, he knows that, and the fact that Barnes actually has a facial expression suggests he knows it too.

Despite the fact that the former brainwashed assassin in the room has picked up on Tony’s attempts to divert the conversation away from him and Steve (he’s not worked out why, Tony doesn’t think, but he’s definitely realised it’s happening), Thor seems to be completely oblivious. It’s not exactly surprising, since the concept of keeping things quiet seems to pass Thor by a lot of the time, but Tony really would like it if Thor would notice the very obvious _drop it, please_ expression Tony is sending his way.

“Indeed,” Thor agrees readily, because Tony just isn’t that lucky. “However, I was speaking of your romantic relationship. I assumed you would still be enjoying your honeymoon, and therefore uninclined to spend time apart.”

This time, Tony actually chokes on his coffee, long and hard enough that he has to raise a hand to fend off Thor’s well-meaning but most probably crippling attempts to pound him on the back.

“What the hell, Thor?” he just about manages, his voice coming out strangled. “You assumed- What?”

Thor looks confused, like he’s finally worked out that Tony isn’t enjoying this conversation topic but has yet to understand why. “Did I say something wrong?”

“_Yes_!” Tony answers, his cool well and truly lost. “You- No one is _married_, Thor! There is no _honeymoon_!”

“Oh,” Thor says, immediately dejected. “Heimdall told me all was once more well between yourself and the captain. It saddens me to hear that isn’t so.”

“Oh, they’re still together,” Natasha chimes in, her sudden appearance making both Tony and Thor jump. “I think what you meant is _honeymoon period_, rather than just honeymoon, Thor.”

“_Natasha_,” Tony hisses once his heart recovers. “You are not helping things.”

“Nah, I think she’s doing just fine,” says Barnes, smiling. Or, actually, he’s grinning, the most human expression Tony’s ever seen on him. He pushes away from his corner, shoulders thrown back, something almost cocky to his stride as he makes his way from the table to where Tony’s still leaning against the counter by the coffee machine.

It’s only now that Tony realises how used he’s gotten to Barnes’ usual demeanour. Yes, he’s quieter than anyone Tony’s ever met, acts like facial expressions are something that happens to other people, and has a tendency to skulk in corners, but Tony no longer finds it alarming. It’s just who he is, the same way Steve is stubborn, Bruce is measured, Natasha is sneaky, and Clint refuses to sit on any kind of furniture in anything close to a conventional way.

The fact that Barnes suddenly seems to have turned into a human being is, on the other hand, faintly terrifying, not least because he’s just discovered that Steve and Tony are screwing and he’s swaggering in Tony’s direction.

“You’re not drinking that, right?” he asks, pointing at the coffee Tony prepared for him. It’s apparently a rhetorical question, though, because he picks the mug up before Tony can point this out and, still grinning, says, “If you’ll excuse me, I have an idiot to yell at.”

“Shout if you need help,” Natasha offers.

Barnes throws her a lazy salute, then saunters his way to the elevator.

“Huh,” Natasha says, once the doors close behind him. “Guess that’s what it takes. Good job, Thor.”

Thor looks somewhat taken aback by the sincerity of her praise. “Thank you?”

Tony decides now is definitely time to clear out, and for once, his workshop isn’t going to cut it. As soon as Barnes is done yelling at him, Steve’s going to come looking for Tony to pass the yelling on, and the fact that it’s Thor’s fault that Barnes knows won’t make a lick of difference.

No, Tony needs to be somewhere too public for Steve to make a scene, but not actually in the presence of the general public, which means he’s going to be making Pepper a very happy woman.

Yes, Tony is 100% going to spend the day hiding in his office. Problem?

X

Steve has only just stepped through the door when JARVIS decides to bring his post-workout buzz to a very abrupt end.

“Captain Rogers,” he says; Steve already realises it’s not going to be anything good, because the words aren’t preceded by _welcome back_ and he’s also not greeting Sam. “Sergeant Barnes requests that you return immediately to your quarters.”

“Is he okay?” Steve asks immediately, filled with the same concern-bordering-on-panic he feels whenever JARVIS feels the need to talk to him about Bucky. He’s heading for the elevator without a moment’s hesitation, Sam following behind him, his plan to return to Tony’s floor and see if he can persuade him to get out of bed and into a shared shower now completely abandoned.

“I believe so,” JARVIS answers just as quickly. “Sergeant Wilson, would you be willing to visit the communal floor for the time being? I can confirm that there is coffee there, and that Agent Barton is in the process of making breakfast.”

Sam quirks an eyebrow at Steve, but since Steve has no idea why Bucky wants him on their floor or why JARVIS seems to want Sam not to be there, he can only shrug in response. 

“Sure, breakfast sounds good,” Sam says. He’s not quite frowning, but Steve gets the impression he’s not far from it, either. “You’ll let me know if Steve needs backup, right, JARVIS?”

JARVIS agrees, and they drop Sam off at the team floor before carrying on up to Steve’s floor.

“About goddamn time,” Bucky says the second Steve exits the elevator, then thrusts a mug directly at him. “Drink this, then tell me why it took a visit from an alien for me to find out that you’re fucking Stark.”

Given that Steve was expecting to encounter at best some broken furniture and at worst a full panic attack, he thinks he’s allowed to be a little surprised by this, though he’s still not sure that excuses the fact that it takes him thirty seconds to come up with a response. Even worse, that response is only a concerned, “Alien?”

“Your pal Thor showed up, let the cat out of the bag,” Bucky explains. “Completely missed the fact that Stark clearly wanted him to shut up.” He frowns, arms as close to crossed as the damage to the left one will allow. “So, get to explaining.”

“You told me to drink this first,” Steve says, holding up the mug of barely warm coffee. He’s stalling, and he’s not being remotely subtle about it, but he’s only just got Bucky back and… And he’s been scared, if he’s being honest, that coming out would change the way Bucky thinks of him, that the trust he’s so carefully been cultivating would be shattered, that the friendship he’s trying to rebuild would be irreparably damaged.

As much as Steve has a reputation for being courageous to the point of foolhardy, he’s an utter coward when it comes to feelings.

In response to his obtuseness, Bucky reaches out, taking the mug from Steve’s hand and draining it, glaring at Steve the entire time.

“There,” he says, depositing the now empty mug in the sink. “It’s gone. Explain.”

“Bucky,” Steve starts, a little bit desperate, because as much as Bucky has what is, according to Sam, a fantastic resting bitchface nowadays, he hasn’t looked at Steve with that much anger since the incident with the tank and the badger back in ‘44. “I’m sorry, Buck. I should have told you years ago, bef- before everything that’s happened, but it was- Jesus, Buck, I wasn’t going to tell anyone back then because they’d have assumed you were too, and I couldn’t do that to you, and-”

He forces himself to take a breath, since his voice has gone from _a little bit desperate_ to extremely so, and that’s not how he wants this to go. Of course, the way he wanted it to go was to tell Bucky himself, when he was ready to do so, so clearly this was never going to be that, but Steve should still be doing a better job of explaining it.

“I’ve only just got you back,” he says, the words coming out slower but not actually any less desperately. “I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, finding out this new thing about me.”

“New?” Bucky says, incredulous. “Steve, I’ve known you were a fairy since I caught you ogling Jimmy Hauptman back when we were fifteen. Do you actually think that’s what I’m pissed at you for?”

“You knew about that?” Steve asks, just as disbelieving, only barely keeping himself from saying _you remember that?_ and then adds, “And we don’t say that anymore.”

“Yeah, sorry, I remember Clint saying,” Bucky agrees, offering Steve an apologetic look before going right back to his point. “And of course I knew. You’ve never been subtle, have you?”

This is nothing Steve hasn’t heard before, and usually he wouldn’t argue it; subtlety is an awful lot more complicated than charging right in and hitting things, and all in all Steve would rather leave the _gently-gently_ approach to people more suited to it. In this case, however… “I thought I’d done a better job with that, though.”

“I’ve known you since you were this high, Stevie,” Bucky says, gesturing somewhere in the region of his knees (he’s exaggerating their initial height difference, Steve thinks, but perhaps by not quite as much as Steve would like). “Maybe you did a decent job of keeping it from most people, but, yeah, I knew.”

“Oh,” Steve manages faintly. “I didn’t know that.”

“And,” Bucky continues, frowning again, “even if I hadn’t, you should have known I wouldn’t give a damn. Who you love doesn’t change who you are, dumbass. Doesn’t matter how many billionaires you take up with, you’ll still be the same idiot I grew up alongside.”

“Oh,” Steve says again. “Sorry, Buck.”

Bucky shrugs off the apology. “Forgiven,” he answers lightly. “For that, anyway. Course, it’s not really me you should be apologising to, is it?”

“It isn’t?” Steve asks.

“Jesus, Steve. You don’t think maybe asking Stark to lie about your relationship isn’t something you should apologise for?”

“That wasn’t-” Steve starts, then has to stop himself, because he can’t honestly say he didn’t ask Tony to lie for him. No, the most he can do is say that he didn’t ask Tony to lie to everyone. “I mean, it was only you I asked him not to tell. He chose not to tell the others.”

“Riiiiiight,” Bucky drawls, long and exaggerated. “Steve, I’ve only been human for a few months, and even I know Stark has no problem broadcasting his relationships to anyone who wants to know about it. Maybe you didn’t outright ask him to, but if he kept quiet about this, he was doing it for you.”

Steve shakes head, very much disagreeing. Maybe Tony was showy in his relationships before Iron Man, maybe it's possible to google him and find the sort of things Steve would never have expected to find in the public domain, but Tony has been far more discreet since then. His relationship with Pepper was public, but none of the details were, and not one of his other partners has shown up in the tabloids after the two of them broke up.

Besides, the one and only time Steve tried to suggest they made their relationship something people would know about, Tony bounced back the _fuck-buddies_ suggestion fast enough to give Steve whiplash. Steve wanted something involving dinner and a movie, walks in the park, and arguing with the press about how he had the right to date anyone he pleased, and Tony made it quite clear he didn't want a relationship outside of the bedroom.

“You're wrong, Buck.”

“Jesus, dumbass,” Bucky answers, then sighs, the sound one of sheer exasperation, which is when it occurs to Steve that this is the most Bucky-ish conversation they’ve had since he got him back. Steve hadn't ever expected to see the man he used to know again, the same way the Bucky he pulled off Zola’s table wasn't the same one who went off to war. He knew Bucky would be different, and it's never once bothered him, but if he looks past the physical changes the man in front of him is every bit the old Bucky, like all he was waiting for was an opportunity to yell at Steve for doing something he thinks is stupid.

“Fine,” Bucky continues. “So, say you’re right, and the only person you asked him to hide it from was me? You ever think that’s maybe just as bad as making him hide it from everyone?”

Between the conversation he hadn't anticipated having today and the sheer Bucky-ness of the man he's having it with, it's safe to say Steve doesn't have any idea why Bucky seems to be so mad at him. “What?”

“_Dumb_ass!” Bucky says again, even more emphatically. “Well, at least now I know why Stark looked like he was waiting for me to punch him the whole time Thor was talking. I mean, I knew you could be thick sometimes, but this really takes the cake.”

“I don’t- What?”

“Come on, Stevie. Stark obviously thinks we used to fuck, and that’s why you’re hiding your thing with him from me. What the hell were you thinking?”

“I…” Steve starts, then has to stop, because, honestly, it hadn’t even crossed his mind that Tony might think he and Bucky used to be together. He understands why Sam made that assumption, because they didn’t know each other so well when Bucky cropped back up, and Steve can, in hindsight, see how his reaction to discovering Bucky was alive might seem a little more than friendly, but Tony?

After everything Steve’s told him, about Peggy and the war, all the things he was proud of and so fucking ashamed of, achievements and regrets and more truth than he’s told anyone in this century… Really dating or not, Steve has shared more of himself with Tony than he has with anyone nowadays and, after all of that, could Tony really have thought that Steve was hiding a past relationship from him?

And, if Tony believes that, what else could he have been thinking? That Steve was keeping his new lover secret from his old one, obviously, but under his cocky exterior Tony is the most insecure person Steve has ever met. Why wouldn’t he assume Steve is just carrying on with him until Bucky’s well enough for Steve to pick back up with him instead?

Why wouldn’t Tony think he was that unimportant to him, when Steve’s worked so hard not to let on how much he cares?

Looking at it that way, all the effort Steve’s put into keeping his feelings to himself seems a lot more like selfishness than self-preservation.

Abruptly, Steve feels the need to sit down. “I didn’t-”

“No,” Bucky interrupts, though he’s a little less emotional, now that he’s clearly got his point across. “You really didn’t, did you? Way to break a guy’s heart.”

At that, Steve falters again, because even if he has been an idiot with demonstrably poor interpersonal skills, at least in this much Bucky is wrong. “Buck, he doesn’t feel like that about me. We’re not- we’re just fooling around.”

“Uh-huh,” Bucky answers, the scepticism in his tone turning the sound from agreement to anything but. “I know you, Steve. _Just fooling around_ ain’t how you do things.”

“Yeah, well, it’s how Tony does them,” Steve says, more heated than he intended. He makes himself take a breath, then starts over. “It’s not exactly what I hoped for, but it is what it is. I tried to ask him if he wanted to go steady, back when we started out, and he shut me down before I could even get the question out. He wanted to be _fuck-buddies_ instead.”

Bucky sighs, dropping to the couch at Steve’s side. “Okay, maybe then, but have you talked about it since? At all?”

Steve shrugs, not about to tell Bucky that he and Tony have talked about a whole host of things but not this. Not about them, because Steve would rather have what he knows Tony is prepared to give him than to push for more and wind up with nothing.

Again, emotionally speaking, Steve is definitely a coward.

“What if he doesn’t want more?”

“Then you sack it up and deal with it, punk,” says Bucky, his Bucky, jostling Steve with his elbow before, sort of cautiously, putting his arm around Steve’s shoulder. “You’ve knocked out Hitler over two hundred times, and it ain’t like you’ve never been rejected either. You ain’t gonna know unless you try.”

Steve grimaces; sure, he was turned down more times than he had hot dinners, back in the ‘30s, but he doesn’t need Bucky to remind him of it, even if he’s doing so in an attempt to cheer him up.

“Jerk,” he mutters.

“Winter Soldier,” Bucky points out. “Goes with the territory. And, hey, if he breaks your heart, at least you know I can put a bullet in his.”

“You wouldn’t,” Steve answers, even though he’s about ninety-eight percent sure Bucky’s joking (and, Jesus, Bucky’s joking again. Steve would have given him the opportunity to yell at him weeks ago, if he’d know that was what it would take).

“Nah,” Bucky agrees. “Won’t have to. Hey, Wilson,” he adds, as Sam returns from breakfast, JARVIS apparently having decided his exile to the communal floor is at an end. “Get your ass in here. Steve’s gonna ask Stark to go steady, and since my wooing experience is rusty and his is goddamn non-existent, it’s on you to make sure he doesn’t fuck it up again.”

Sam walks in, his expression equal parts surprised and sort of befuddled, but he handles it with his usual grace. “You don’t ask much, do you, Barnes?” he says, raising an eyebrow at Steve, then turning towards the kitchen. “I’m gonna need a hell of a lot of coffee, if that’s what you need from me. You want?”

X

Cookery, it has to be said, is not Steve’s strong suit. He can manage toast and cereal, not that those entirely count as cooking, and his skills at boiling pasta and heating up a jar of sauce are unparalleled, but when it comes to preparing something that might actually count as a healthy, home-cooked meal, he’s somewhat less competent.

Still, Sam and Bucky both maintain it’s absolutely necessary, so he’s willing to make the effort, and if his handmade burgers are really too awful to eat they can just throw them out and order in.

Assuming Tony ever leaves his office, that is; it’s currently getting on for nine in the evening, and Steve is still waiting for him.

“JARVIS?” he asks, not going so far as to actually phrase his question; given that he last asked for an update approximately three minutes ago, Steve thinks JARVIS can work out his question without it.

“Ms Potts is currently on the phone with Sir,” JARVIS replies. “I have explained to her that he has retreated to his office and is refusing to leave, and I am reasonably certain that she will succeed in convincing him to do so.”

“Thank you,” Steve answers, shifting one of the plates on the table an inch to the right, then straightening up the cutlery as well. The neatness does little to soothe his nerves, and unfortunately only occupies him for a few seconds before he ends up pacing again.

“Am I being stupid, JARVIS?” he asks, three laps of the room later.

JARVIS doesn’t answer, clearly hesitating, and Steve realises he’s over-stepped. “Sorry,” he says, looking down; JARVIS might be privy to just about everything that happens in the Tower, particularly when it comes to Tony, but he has a strict personal code when it comes to sharing anything, and Steve should know better than to ask anything that might seem like he’s prying into that. “I shouldn’t have asked that. I don’t expect you to tell me anything he’s said or you’ve overheard.”

“I did not believe you would, Captain,” JARVIS tells him. Steve chooses to believe he sounds approving, even if his voice is exactly as it always is, because the thought that JARVIS approves of him is very slightly comforting. “I will, however, remind you that Sir has a tendency to hear what he expects to hear. I would strongly advise you to be very straightforward with him, when he arrives.”

“He’s on his way?”

“He is, Captain Rogers,” JARVIS replies, pausing for a moment before adding, “Do try not to hurt him, won’t you?”

X

“I promise,” Steve is saying when Tony arrives, and since there’s no one else in the room, it’s pretty clear who he’s talking to.

“Oh dear,” Tony says, because Pepper might have bullied him into not running away from his problems-slash-imminent-dumping but she can’t bullying him into dropping the pretence that he’s fine with it. Not from the other side of the country, at least, and since she’s in California until Friday Tony gets another few days of pretending he’s absolutely okay. “What’re you making him promise, J?”

“Nothing you wouldn’t approve of, Sir.”

“You sure of that?”

JARVIS doesn’t answer, so Tony no longer has an excuse for not looking at Steve. “Okay,” he says, after a few seconds of watching Steve fidget uncomfortably, his thumbs tapping against each finger in turn, the movement rapid and a little uneven. Nervous, Tony thinks, though he’s got no idea what Steve has to be nervous about.

Tony knew the two of them were only temporary, and he has no desire at all to make a scene, not when Steve’s been decent enough to wait until they’re alone to do this. That alone is a good start, Tony has to give him that much credit; God knows, the first time he broke up with someone, he wasn’t anywhere near that tactful. Of course, he was also fifteen, but that’s neither here nor there.

“It’s easier if you get it over with quickly,” Tony advises, when Steve continues to just stand there.

“Right,” Steve says, sort of shaking himself out of whatever stupor he’s in. “I made dinner, if-” He sort of motions in the direction of the table, which Tony is just now noticing has been laid properly, with the good cutlery and the even better plates, the stuff Pepper picked out back when this was her home too.

Dinner is very much _not _getting it over with quickly, but Tony, idiot that he is, follows Steve’s unspoken instruction to sit, then watches in faint confusion as Steve collects a plate of burger buns from the worktop, followed shortly by a plate of burgers, a bowl of fries, and a stack of cheese slices.

“Wine?” Steve offers. “Or soda, I don’t know if you want to drink-drink, or…” He stops, swallowing audibly, and takes a deep breath before starting his question over again. “Would you like a drink, Tony?”

“Um,” Tony says, still not entirely sure what’s going on; he’s both dumped and been dumped a lot, but not once has the dumping been preceded by a home-cooked meal. Even when it was Pepper, they went for the _rip the bandaid_ _off _approach, no arguments, no prevaricating, just a very straightforward _I love you, and you will always be my friend, but we don’t want the same things in life, do we?_

He’d sort of expected Steve to go about it in a similar way, with the notable exception of the L-word, but apparently not. Apparently, Steve wants to know his drink order. “Wine’s okay?”

Steve brings over the bottle and a pair of glasses, thankfully stopping short of presenting it for Tony’s inspection before opening it, though he does pour for both of them before taking his own seat.

“I hope everything’s okay,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “The burgers are Sam’s mom’s recipe, he says they’re pretty hard to mess up, but, well, I wouldn’t put it past me to manage it.”

“I’m sure they’re fine,” Tony says, assembling a burger on his plate, because, hey, why wouldn’t he want to reassure the guy who’s about to leave him?

It’s a little overcooked for Tony’s taste, but not inedibly so, and neither he nor Steve speaks for a few mouthfuls. The silence is unutterably awkward, but even if Tony’s willing to eat the _break-up burgers _and drink the _we’re over wine_, he’s already tried once to get the ball rolling. It’s Steve’s turn now.

“Okay,” Steve says, when Tony’s just about finished his first burger. “Bucky told me what happened with Thor this morning, and I think I owe you an apology.”

_Oh, hell no_, Tony thinks. He’ll graciously accept Steve breaking up with him, but he’s not going to let him do the _I’m so sorry_ thing first. “You really don’t,” he says. “I knew this was coming, sooner or later. To be honest, I thought it’d be quite a lot sooner, actually.”

He looks up from his plate to see Steve frowning, sort of like he’s sad and sort of like he’s not go a clue what Tony’s talking about.

“Look,” he explains, because talking is what Tony does best, and if he’s the one who says it then at least he doesn’t have to hear it. “I figured we were done for good as soon as JARVIS told me he’d found Barnes, so everything since then has been a bonus. You don’t have to be sorry, and you definitely didn’t need to do all this. I’m not going to make a fuss.”

Steve laughs, the sound short and more than a little surprising. “Sorry,” he says instantly. “I’m not- I’m just relieved-”

“Yeah, well, I’m not-”

“I’m not breaking up with you, Tony.”

“-A child, you don’t have to coddle m-” He’s so busy defending himself that it takes a moment for Steve’s words to sink in, at which point he stops abruptly. “Hang on, you’re not?”

“Definitely not,” Steve says, which is promising. “Unless that’s what you want, when I’m done,” he adds, which is less so.

There’s fuck-all Tony can say to that, so he just sips at his wine, trying to stop his brain motoring on through the conversation before Steve has actually said anything, since he’s apparently already invented a non-existant break-up.

“Okay,” Steve says, getting with the program there. “First off, Bucky and I have never been together.”

It’s hard for Tony not to scoff at that. “No?”

“No,” Steve answers. “I guess I get why you thought that, but he’s… Bucky’s my Rhodey, you know?”

“Your Rhodey.” Tony thinks he can be forgiven for being sceptical, given that he’s never parachuted into enemy territory with nothing but a prop shield to rescue Rhodey from a prison camp. Not that he wouldn’t rescue him, but he’d trust Rhodey to hold on long enough for Tony to get slightly better tooled up than Steve was, even if Steve already had superhuman abilities and a whole lot of determination on his side, and, okay, that’s a shitty example, but he’s sure he can think of other times where Steve has acted way less than platonically where Barnes is concerned. Abandoning his friends and sort-of-home to look for him. Dropping the shield to let Barnes beat him to a pulp. Basically everything ever.

“I didn’t have friends when I was a kid, Tony,” Steve explains, thankfully oblivious to Tony’s useless inner monologue. “No one wanted to put up with the scrawny, sickly kid who was too stupid to stay out of fights he couldn’t win. Before I met Erskine, there were exactly two people who gave a damn what happened to me: my mom, and Bucky. And Bucky? He was smart, he was handsome, and he could have been friends with absolutely anyone he wanted, but for some reason he picked me. And, even after he stopped being my only friend, he was still my best friend, but he has never and will never be more than that. It’s not what either of us want.”

“But you… Everything you’ve done for him, that’s not just friendship.”

Steve shrugs. “It is for me,” he says, like it really is that simple. “I’d do the same for any of you guys, and you can do the _I’d just cut the wire_ thing all you like but I think you would too.”

“Steve…” Tony says, the word catching in his throat, because, sure, maybe he can see Steve being that good, if he really thinks about it, but not him. He’s not that selfless, and no one else alive has ever been naive enough to tell him he is. “You really need to lower your expectations of people, Cap.”

“Or maybe you just need to think better of yourself, Iron Man,” Steve bounces back, like telling the self-proclaimed narcissist he should have a higher opinion of himself isn’t complete bullshit. “I do love him,” he continues, ignoring Tony’s grimace completely, “but not the way I think you think I do, okay?”

He’s so earnest, so sincere, the way he always is, and half of Tony’s selfish, selfish heart wants to believe him, wants to think he might really be allowed to have him like that, even as the other equally selfish half wants to tell Steve to stop, to quit saying things that are only going to give him hope.

Tony’s tried the hopeful approach to relationships, the whole time he was with Pepper and then again when he thought he and Steve might work themselves out after that night in Barcelona. Hope doesn’t end well, and he doesn’t want to do it again.

But Steve really does seem like he means it.

“Okay,” Tony says, giving in. Hell, he survived with a heart full of shrapnel for four years. What’s a little more eventual heartbreak on top of that? “Okay.”

It feels like the right decision as soon as he’s said it, and only a little bit of that is the smile Steve gives him, stupidly wholesome and relieved and… Fuck, just so Steve about it all.

“Okay,” Steve echoes, reaching out across the table, folding Tony’s hand in his and just… holding. “Good.”

Tony turns his hand until he can hold back. He’s not sure how long they stay like that for, Steve still smiling like Tony’s made his whole goddamn life, let alone just the day, but it feels like longer than he’s ever managed to sit still for. Much, much longer.

“Good,” Steve says again, eventually. “So, if we’ve cleared that up, there’s something else.”

He’s still holding Tony’s hand, so Tony tries not to jump to conclusions “There is?”

Steve chews on his lower lip, free hand tapping at the base of his wine glass. “Yes,” he says, a sharp nod accompanying it. “It’s just- If I’m barking up the wrong tree here, please stop me before I completely embarrass myself, _please_, but. Just, Buck reckons you like me more than I thought you did.”

_Well, there goes hope_, Tony thinks, extracting his hand. Here’s the _I like you, but_ part of the conversation. Sure, it’s not actually the _but I like him more_ that he was expecting, more of a _but not as much as you like me_, but that doesn’t actually make it any better.

Still, Tony can totally convince Steve he’s wrong, if he puts his mind to it. There’s no reason this _has_ to be the end of them. “Right, because Mr Can-Barely-Recognise-Human-Emotions is obviously the best judge of things like that.”

“Tony.” Steve sighs, maybe at the dismissal, maybe at the name calling, Tony doesn’t much care which, because a sigh is a sigh is a sigh. Steve seems to realise that, too, because he doesn’t follow it up with the _be serious_ face he sometimes makes a habit of. “The thing is, when he said that, I couldn’t understand it at all. I mean, you’re the one who suggested the relationship we had, and if that wasn’t what you wanted, why would you have done that?”

_I suggested it?_ Tony thinks, though Steve doesn’t stop long enough for him to say it, just keeps going.

“Bucky was so insistent, though,” he says, like Barnes has seen them interacting enough to make a statement either way. No sooner has Tony thought it than Steve very effectively counters it, “And I figured he was wrong, obviously, but then when Sam came up he didn’t even question it. They both acted like it was a fact, insisting I should tell you, and I had to wonder if I agreed too quickly when you suggested such a casual relationship.”

He pauses, takes a sip from his wine, and Tony just waits, his brain racing, trying for hope again however much he wants it to hold on, wait for Steve to be done talking.

“I thought that was what you wanted, and if I pushed you’d refuse,” Steve says. “So I settled for what I thought was all you were prepared to offer me, but if everyone’s right then, maybe, we were both on the same page after all.”

He stops, like that’s it, all of it, and Tony thinks, maybe. Maybe he’s hearing Steve right, maybe he’s really saying what Tony wants him to, but, “I need to hear you say it, Steve,” he says, almost begs, even as his hand reaches for Steve’s again. “I can’t believe you unless you say it.”

Steve’s smile is smaller this time, more cautious, but Tony feels his own face answer it, quite without intending you to.

“I like you, Tony,” Steve says, plain as day. “I like you a lot. A lot a lot, and I thought, if you wanted to, we could actually go out for dinner sometime?”

“Oh,” Tony answers, and the way he squeezes Steve’s hand is every bit as involuntary as his smile was. “Oh. Dinner?”

Steve’s beaming now, full and bright. “Dinner,” he confirms. “It’s a meal people eat in the evening, a bit like this one, only cooked by someone who knows what they’re doing. I know it’s not a concept you’re all that familiar with, though, so if it’s too much we can start with coffee, someplace other than your lab or with the team, maybe?”

“I like coffee,” Tony says inanely.

“Okay,” Steve agrees. “Coffee it is, and maybe we can talk about telling people about us, if you were- If you wanted to.”

“Oh,” Tony says, for what has to be about the fiftieth time this conversation. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

It’s apparently Steve’s turn to be surprised, as though he thought Tony could sit through the _I like you_ and _a lot a lot_ without wanting to go public. As though he thought Tony wouldn’t be planning to hire a sky-writer and buy out all the front pages and do pretty much anything it takes to show that he also likes Steve. A lot a lot a lot.

(He might not be at the L-word, not quite yet, but he can see it coming, now that he’s letting himself look.)

“You would?” Steve asks, which is about when Tony has to stand up and round the table, still holding his hand, only stretching his arm in a very slightly uncomfortable way in order to do so.

“I really would,” he says, tugging until Steve stands up as well. “I like you a lot too, Steve.”

He’s already on tiptoes by the end of it, and Steve is leaning in, and in, breathing in Tony’s declaration like it’s all he needs to live, and oh.

_Oh_.

“We can leave telling people until tomorrow, though, right?” Tony asks, in the brief, brief pause between kisses.

“Yeah,” Steve agrees, fully dressed but looking thoroughly dishevelled. “I think so.”


	16. Chapter Thirteen

Natalia makes him draw straws over who gets to deliver what she refers to as _the shovel talk_. She tried to force Sam in on it, too, but apparently he’s just as fearless as Steve is, since all he does is shake his head and leave the room, despite Natalia’s smile, leaving just the two of them to compete.

Natalia says Barnes won. He’s less sure, but apparently this is a non-optional twenty-first century tradition, so Barnes waits until Natalia has challenged Steve to a sparring match in the gym before taking the stairs down to Stark’s workshop.

Barnes knows JARVIS is going to announce his presence, so he doesn’t bother attempting to be stealthy, just lurks outside the door until Stark acknowledges him.

“Steve’s not here,” he says, effectively completing the mirror of their last conversation.

“I know. Natalia said I have to talk to you.”

“Well, in that case…” Stark answers, looking back down at the table in front of him. “What is it?”

Barnes doesn’t smile, even though Natalia said he should. “I killed your parents,” he says.

Stark’s eyes flick up for a fraction of a second, hands twitching over a scattering of gears on the table before him, picking them up one after another.

“Way Steve spins it, you weren’t you at the time,” he tells the gears, which is still a whole lot ballsier than Barnes was expecting from a man who can’t enter a fight unless he’s wearing dangerously colourful armour.

“Maybe not,” Barnes agrees, “But I am now. You fuck with Steve, it’ll be me that kills you, and I’ll be a hell of a lot less efficient about it than the Soldier was.”

Stark, freak of nature that he is (being a freak himself, Barnes is well-equipped to recognise it in someone else, even though his own freakishness is a hell of a lot less natural), looks somewhat less perturbed by the threat on his life than he was by Barnes’ previous declaration. In fact, he looks sort of amused, a little bit of a smirk playing around his lips.

“So that's how it is, then,” he says lightly. “Knew I shouldn’t have believed Steve when he said there was nothing there. I mean, there's friendship and then there's breaking through however many years of brainwashing to save a target’s life.”

Stark might be expecting an extreme reaction to this, in which case he's going to be deeply disappointed. If Barnes’ memories from back then are to be trusted, Bucky was exclusively interested in women, but he would have gone to the ends of the earth to keep Steve happy and healthy. Bucky cancelled more than one date to sit by Steve’s sickbed, broke off more than one relationship because they couldn't handle the fact that they wouldn't ever be more important to him than Steve was. Significant, yes, maybe even just as important, but never more.

Bucky made no secret of the fact that Steve was the centre of his universe, and it turns out that's the kind of thing that sticks around.

“That's how it is,” Barnes answers. “Problem?”

Stark looks up at him again, eyes narrowed, brandishing the spanner in his hand at him like the world’s most ill-advised threat. Ignoring the fact that threatening the Winter Soldier with anything is a piss poor idea, the thing is so tiny and delicate that Barnes himself would struggle to use it as a weapon. Hell, even Natalia would have a hard time of it, and Barnes is reasonably sure she once killed a man with a paper clip.

Still, it's cute that Stark is making the effort, so Barnes doesn't actually laugh in his face. Just looks as unimpressed as he can, right up until the moment Stark says, “I'm not breaking up with him for you.”

“I’m not fucking ask you to,” Barnes as good as growls at him. “I love that fucking idiot with ever fibre of my being, but it hasn't ever been in that way. And, even if it was, I'm done with that shit. I barely sleep, I’m carrying more weapons than most people ever see in their lives and I still don't feel safe, and at least once a week I wind up hyperventilating over which pair of socks I should wear. There ain’t enough human left in here to want a relationship, let alone have one.”

“Barnes…” Stark says, not managing anything more than that, his face doing that thing that he's seen Steve and Sam and occasionally Clint do, sometimes even Natalia as well. Like they want to reach out, offer comfort, but they know there's no fucking comfort to be had and any attempt will most likely end up with them knifed and Barnes catatonic in a corner.

It’s not an expression he’s had from Stark before, and Barnes really wished it had stayed that way.

“Don’t.” Barnes instructs, because just that expression has been enough to set him off sometimes. “You keep looking at me like that, you and me are definitely going to have a problem.”

Stark’s face twists into a smile, completely unconvincing, but it's an improvement on the terrible, pointless kindness of a moment ago.

“Better,” Barnes says, then moves on to the really fucking complicated part of this conversation; Natalia might have ordered him to talk to Stark while Steve isn’t around, but there’s something else Barnes wants to discuss while he’s here. “Now, I need a favour.”

“Beg pardon?” says Stark. “I get that you've spent some time out of commission lately, Frosty. Maybe you're a little foggy on the conversational niceties, but I'm a friendly guy – the philanthropy deal, you know – so I'm gonna give you some advice. If you're planning on asking for a favour, maybe don't start with a threat? Just a thought, you know.”

Barnes bares his teeth, as bad an imitation of a smile as Stark’s was. “You'll like this one,” he says, making it sound light, normal, as far as possible from the almost-desperation he feels. “If they get me back, you gotta promise that you'll put me down.”

Stark’s mouth opens and closes, but no actual sound comes out, and Barnes mentally removes _render Tony Stark speechless_ from his bucket list (not that he'd known it was on there before now, but it's both one hell of an achievement and damn entertaining).

Still, it's not agreement, and therefore nowhere near good enough. Never mind that this conversation is already getting on for the longest and most revealing one he’s had since he got here, and it’s definitely more than he's ever said to Stark. Barnes is just going to have to suck it up and keep going, no matter how goddamn much he hates talking about who he was and how they built him.

“I mean it, Stark,” Barnes tells him. “I'd rather be dead than go back there, but I don't expect you to do it for me. I expect you to do it because if it's between the Soldier and whatever target they put in front of him, you know there's only one right choice.”

Despite this cripplingly logical argument, Stark remains silent, shaking his head just slightly. Not enough to mean _no_, just disbelief, and Barnes is really struggling to make this simple for him.

“It's really not that difficult,” he says. “You get to save fuck knows how many people, and you get your revenge while you're at it. How is that not-”

“You think I want _revenge_ on a torture victim?” Stark demands, lunging to his feet quickly enough to send his chair skating away from him, the metallic clash as it hits a filing cabinet a jarring contrast to the white noise in Barnes’ head.

“That's not-”

“It _is_,” Stark interrupts, hands at his sides and empty for once, clenching into fists over and over again. “I read your goddamn file, and not just the shitty translation that Natasha gave Steve. The things they did to you make Guantanamo look like a preschool version of the fucking Stanford Prison Experiment. They spent years figuring out every single way there is to hurt a person, and when you still wouldn’t do what they wanted you to they built a machine that would take you out and leave them a nice, blank template to work with, so don't even think that-”

He stops, pinching the bridge of his nose and taking a series of deep breaths before turning back to whatever the hell it is he's working on.

“I was captured once,” Stark says, so close to silent that Barnes wouldn't have heard it without his enhanced hearing. “Afghanistan. Took shrapnel to the chest, woke up in a cave with a fucking car battery wired into me. Worst three months of my life, still have nightmares about it now, and the things I read in your file make it seem like a fucking five star resort. I would've done exactly what they wanted me to, if the shit they gave me to build them weapons hadn't been what I needed to build the first suit and escape. A few weeks in a cave with guys who never made it past chapter two of _Torture for Beginners_ and I as good as broke. Seventy years of hell, and they were still frying your brain to get you to do what they told you.”

“I killed your parents,” Barnes reminds him, tone neutral, controlled; whatever his shrinks say about it being healthy to express his feelings, he's not going to have a goddamn incident in Tony Stark’s shit-tip of a workshop.

“No,” says Stark. “You didn't.”

“It was my fist that caved your father’s skull in. My hand around your mom’s throat. Did the file tell you that, Stark?” Barnes asks, and doesn't wait for an answer. “Did it tell you that your old man fucking recognised me before I turned his brain into mush? Hell, if you have your robot search through the Hydra archives for long enough you'll probably find there’s security footage showing exactly what I did to them. You know, if you need a little more motivation.”

“There is,” Stark replies, still quiet, expressionless as he looks up at Barnes again. “JARVIS found it, I watched it. A lot, actually. Got wasted, trashed the ‘shop, cried over them for probably the first time since the funeral, whole thing was a hideous mess I'd rather forget about entirely. Still doesn't mean you’re responsible.”

“So you won't do it for me, you won't do it for the world, and you won't do it to avenge your parents even though _avenging _is supposed to be your mission statement.” Barnes caps off his summary with a weary sigh. “I didn't want to play this card, but you don't seem to be giving me a choice.”

Stark arches an eyebrow. “What's that, then?”

“Steve.”

“And bringing him up is supposed to sway me how?”

“Because if you don’t agree, I’ll have to ask him.”

“How’d you figure that?”

“Widow, Hawkeye and Falcon are too fragile to go up against the Soldier, Thor spends half his time on another planet and the Hulk isn’t exactly good at following orders. That leaves you and Steve, and I know who it’ll hurt less. You care about him as much as I think you do, you won’t put him in that position.”

“As opposed to the position where I’ve murdered his BFF?” Stark says. “Yeah, I can totally see how that’s better.”

“It is for him,” Barnes answers, resorting to stating the fucking obvious because Stark clearly isn't getting it. “Look, it's not like I want to be recaptured by fascists, tortured into being their puppet and then put down for the good of humanity. But if it does happen, and if I'm not able to take myself out before they break me, I don't want Steve to have to live with being the one who kills me. You're about the only person I can count on to make sure he doesn't have to.”

Stark looks at him for an uncomfortably long time (in fairness, anything more than about a second tends to feel damn uncomfortable to Barnes). There’s no expression, at least not one Barnes can decipher, and he doesn’t know if he should start begging or arguing, whether there’s any point in doing either – from what Steve’s said about him, Stark can be impossibly stubborn, and if that’s not the pot calling the kettle Barnes doesn’t know what is.

“JARVIS?” he says hesitantly. “You record everything, right?”

“Indeed, Sergeant Barnes,” answers the ceiling. “I have a dedicated server containing all footage since cameras were installed. Excluding any areas that may reasonably considered private, that is.”

Barnes nods, having heard pretty much precisely what he was expecting to. “So, if I turn and Stark has to kill me, you’ll show this to Steve so he knows what I said, yeah? Hell, if I turn and Stark doesn’t put me down, show Steve. Make sure he knows Stark put his relationship above saving innocent lives.”

“Make sure he knows that’s _absolutely not what happened_,” Stark says, in a voice that is the closest thing to a snarl Barnes has heard since he got here, and then closes his eyes. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he takes three exaggeratedly deep breaths before opening his eyes again and glaring at Barnes.

“Right,” he says. “Okay. _If_ Hydra captures you again, _if_ there’s absolutely no way to get you back again, and _if_ you pose an immediate danger, I promise to do what I have to in order to stop you. And that better be good enough because you’re not getting any more than that, understand?”

There’s a lot of conditionals in there, but it’s also a lot closer to an affirmative than anything Stark’s said so far and Barnes thinks the man wasn’t lying when he said it was the best he’s going to get. And it _isn’t _enough, but then the only thing he thinks would actually be sufficiently reassuring is Stark promising to empty a clip into his brain the second it becomes clear he’s going to fall into Hydra’s hands again.

The team are all far too sure of their ability to rescue each other from near certain doom for anyone to agree to that, though, so Barnes is just going to have to accept it.

He nods.

“Wonderful,” Stark says. “I need a couple things in return, though.”

Barnes grimaces, fairly sure he's not going to want to agree to Stark’s demands any more than Stark wanted to agree to his. He will, most likely, because Stark cares for Steve too much to ask anything unbearable from Barnes, and because, if he's completely honest, Barnes is more than a little scared that Stark will take it back if Barnes refuses him.

Barnes _needs_ him to keep that promise.

“What things?” he asks grudgingly.

Stark turns on his flashy, media-friendly grin and strikes the hands out, _look-at-me-aren’t-I-wonderful _pose he always seems to have when there’s cameras around. “One,” he says, “You make me the same promise.”

Barnes isn't sure what his face is doing, but given Stark’s reaction it's definitely doing something it doesn't normally; Stark laughs, short and not entirely amused. “Why so surprised?” he asks. “Believe me, I don't want to be a terrorist group’s plaything anymore than you do. One of those t-shirts is more than enough, you know?” Barnes _doesn't_ know, but the speed with which Stark continues speaking suggests it's probably a rhetorical question.

“But, seriously, if they can stick you in a chair and make you try kill your BFF, they can do the same to any of us and, like you said, I don't want to put taking me out on Steve's shoulders.” A pause, barely long enough for Stark to take a breath, and then, “Besides, I know how the fight on the helicarrier went, and the fact that lying there letting you smash his face in while he tried to convince you were buddies actually worked is just going to make him try the same stupid thing again.

“So, it goes both way,” Stark concludes. “You turn, I put you down. I turn, you put me down. Deal?”

_No_, Barnes thinks, closely followed by _hell fucking no_. And maybe it makes him a hypocrite, that he’d demand from Stark a promise he himself isn’t willing to make, but if a hypocrite’s the worst thing he is nowadays Barnes can live with that.

It’s stupid that he’s wavering here, when he’s already promised Stark he’ll kill him for hurting Steve. Agreeing to take him out _before_ he can do damage is just efficient, something Barnes is usually completely in favour of, but instead he finds himself understanding why Stark was so adamant in his refusal, even in the face of Barnes’ entirely logical arguments.

Even though he is here to threaten Stark with physical harm If he voluntarily hurts Steve, Barnes doesn’t know if he would follow through on it. And if Hydra or someone else gets their hands on him, if they try to force him to harm Steve against his will, if he doesn't have a _choice_…

Barnes has killed enough innocents in his too long lifetime.

He already knows he’d rather die than wind up in Hydra’s control again, has a hundred plans for how he'd kill himself or force the people after him to kill him rather than take him alive. He knows he'd fight to the death to prevent someone hurting or killing or taking Steve, thinks he'd probably try just as hard to protect Natalia or Sam or Clint, if it came down to it. What's one more name on the list, particularly when it's someone Steve is in love with?

If he's willing to die keeping Stark out of enemy hands, he might as well promise. He won't be alive to keep it.

Barnes nods jerkily, then braces himself; as bad as Stark’s first request was, he doesn't think the second one will be any better. “And?” he asks, watching that showman’s smile dim into what might well be the most genuine smile he's ever got from Stark.

“Let me take a look at your arm,” Stark answers, neither a request nor an order but somewhere in between. “It causes me actual pain to have tech that damaged in my home, never mind that god-awful noise it keeps making.”


	17. Epilogue

Being woken at all hours by obnoxiously loud music is very much an occupational hazard of being best friends with Tony Stark. Jim’s tried putting his phone on silent, tried turning it off, tried shutting it in the freaking freezer along with just about every other electrical item he owns, and still Tony manages to contact him when he should be completely unreachable. Hell, the top brass are still laughing and/or raging about the time Tony flew over to Afghanistan and interrupted an Eyes Only briefing to ask for advice on what to get Pepper for her birthday because Jim wasn't answering his phone.

Jim loves the guy, he does, but that doesn't mean he wouldn't quite happily strangle him sometimes.

“-dey? Rhodey, are you even listening to me?” Tony demands, some fifteen minutes into a phone call (of which Jim paid attention to the first twenty seconds, just long enough to ascertain that this is a Tony-emergency rather than a world-ending one).

“No,” Jim answers, because brutal honesty is often the only way to get through to Tony. “It's three in the morning, Tony.”

“And?” Tony asks.

_To explain or not to explain_, offers Jim’s sleep-deprived brain. On the one hand, he listens without complaint until Tony’s said his fill about whatever’s put a bee in his bonnet, offers something along the lines of the same advice he always gives Tony (_has it occurred to you to try talking to him/her about it?_), and then listens some more as Tony gives all his usual reasons why that's not an option. Or, on the other hand, Jim makes the effort to explain to Tony yet again that a) most people tend to panic when they get phone calls in the middle of the night and b) not everyone’s job comes with the same flexible working hours Tony allows himself, only for Tony to dismiss all Jim’s very reasonable complaints (_okay, sure, I’ll remember that for next time, but since you're already awake you might as well let me finish_) and they'll be right back to the first hand again.

Either way, Jim’s most likely still going to be listening to him when his alarm goes off in nowhere-near-enough-time-from-now, and the option where he explains is a whole lot more effort.

“And I'm tired, Tony,” he says, even though he's more or less resigned himself to hearing Tony out. “Is there any chance at all of you sticking to the cliff notes version of whatever this is?”

This is Tony he's talking to, so Jim’s fully expecting the answer to be a firm no – best case scenario, he picks up his story from where he left off, but it's far more likely that he'll start over so that he can be sure Jim’s heard absolutely all of it. He's surprised, then, when Tony thinks for a few seconds before answering.

“I can do cliff notes,” Tony says, in an _I can feel you doubting me and I'm going to prove you wrong_ sort of voice; Jim recognises it from all the times he's tried to warn him against doing something particularly self-destructive, only for Tony to do it anyway and somehow walk out the other side in one piece. “Okay. Cliff notes. Short and sweet. I got this.”

He pauses for breath, which is in itself unusual enough to slightly alarm Jim, and then, “Right. This evening, Steve's not-so-dead BFF decided to remind me that he killed my mom and dad, threatened my life, and then made me promise that I'd put him down if he went Dark Side again, so as _my_ BFF I really, really need you to step up and give Captain America the shovel talk, okay?”

It might only be a temporary solution, but Jim decides to hang up on him anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, if you've made it this far, I want to say thank you again for reading. If you enjoyed either the fic or the art, please drop us a line letting us know.  
Again, let me say thank you to Chalenmimi, for being the most supportive and patient and all around wonderful artist a gal could hope for.  
Love to you all,  
Peach x


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